


Push the Sky Away

by Portrait_of_a_Fool



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conditioning, Disturbing Themes, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Imagery, M/M, Mental Instability, Mindfuck, Non Consensual, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Will-centric, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 93,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham walks out of his house in the wee hours of a late spring morning. As he goes, Will begins to delete himself piece by piece until there is nothing left but a few words written on his palm. Knowing only his first name, Will is a man lost to the world and to himself.</p><p>Welcome to the summer of Will Graham’s disconnect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a pretty story full of glitter and tulips, but I _can_ promise you a happy _ish_ ending.
> 
> Artistic liberties have been taken with a few things. I am aware of what I’ve done and it is not author ignorance at play here, simply choices I made while writing this. This is canon divergent from somewhere around 1x9—pre-encephalitis, so to speak—and instead deals with a rare psychological disorder known as "dissociative fugue", which you can read more about [**here**](http://www.webmd.com/mental-health/dissociative-fugue). Information on the topic is rather scarce, but that may help provide an overview.
> 
> The title of this is borrowed from the song of the same name by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. If you’d like to listen to it then you can do so [**here**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzTCbaZj5HA).
> 
> Finally, thank you for taking the time to read my ridiculously long notes. If you decide to give this story a chance, I sincerely hope you enjoy it. :)

  
_“The world has many edges and it's easy to fall off.”_   


— Anderson Cooper

**I**

It’s half past two in the morning when Will awakes from a nightmare. He’s drenched in sweat, hair matted to his forehead and cheeks as he bolts upright in bed. It was a murky kind of dream, which is rare for him, but he thinks they may be the worst of all because he never can _see_ what it is that’s scaring him so badly. His life, both waking and sleeping, is a nightmare that never seems to end. He finds some peace in fishing—sometimes—and with his dogs—occasionally. He can get a little lost in his lectures, but not too much. The fear is always there, waiting around every corner. It lurks in the back of Will’s mind like a crouching demon sent to devour him.

He sits in the dark, dimly aware of the sounds his dogs make in their sleep. One of them chuffs a soft bark and he listens to dreaming paws lazily racing after something. Normally that would make him smile, but he can’t do it. He can only sit on the side of his bed and shake-shake-shake. He’s so tired of shaking. He’s tired of being afraid. He’s tired of being a freak. He’s tired of having an “empathy disorder”.

He cradles his head in his hands, feels the sticky wetness of his sweaty hair, gummy against his clammy palms. Tears are a heavy weight in the back of his throat. They perch there with the scream that’s been threatening to tear loose from his voice box for years. He pictures the tears and that familiar scream as carrion birds. He’s tired of that, too; of the scream and the tears that fall sometimes in secret, sometimes in his waking moments and sometimes in his sleep where they mix and mingle with the salt of his sweat.

He thinks about getting up and going outside to sit on his doorsteps for a little while. Sometimes that helps… sometimes it doesn’t. Nothing is a sure thing. _Nothing_. All he can really do is distract himself or suffer through it. He is tired of not having any kind of way to really deal with _himself_. He is tired of considering taking up alcoholism as a viable coping mechanism given his special circumstances. At least then he may be able to sleep.

The wind outside is a low, whispering moan that slips around the eaves of his tiny house like silk on a woman’s body. Will focuses on it and lets it lull him into an almost trancelike state. Then it picks up and _screams_ through the darkness, which startles him and sends his heart racing again. He is tired of being frightened by the wind. He is tired of jumping at shadows, even his own. He is tired of being trapped in his dysfunctional mind.

He wants to escape and with every cell in his body he wishes he could. It’s building up inside of him like steam and he only wants it to go away. The lost time is scary, but it’s also a respite. Will finds himself longing for it as much as he is repulsed by it. He begins to rock himself gently on the side of the bed, hunched over with his arms wrapped tightly around his torso, fingertips almost touching the backs of his shoulders. He makes a strained sound through his gritted teeth and bows his head. He listens to the screaming wind and lets it in. If he lets it, the howling wind can lull him just as well as the whispering wind. He is tired of almost everything, but most of all, he is tired of being tired.

What Will is actually tired of is of being _himself_. This is not a revelation. It never stops being true though. He is _so damned tired_ of being Will Graham that he’d give anything to not be for a little while. Maybe for forever.

He squeezes his eyes closed as tightly as he can and wishes.

He wishes.

_He wishes._

The wind screams on.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The clock reads 4:18 AM when Will finally rises from his bed. The wind has quieted back down to a gentle soughing. It almost sounds like a lullaby. He’s standing on a tightrope while he moves around in the dark, getting dressed, getting his cash together. He puts his cash in his right hip pocket and puts his ID and credit cards in his left. He leaves his wallet on his dresser.

At the moment, he is in between worlds. In one world, he is Will Graham, basket-case extraordinaire. In the other world, he is someone he hasn’t yet become. Will Graham needs to be at least partially present for the next couple of acts and then he can say farewell. That knowledge lurks much like the crouching demon does, but this isn’t scary. This is a wish come true.

He pats each of the dogs goodbye then stands back and smiles at the whole pack. “I’m going on a trip,” he tells them. His voice is soft, flat and far away. “A trip, a trip,” he sing-songs under his breath with soft glee. The dogs cock their heads almost in unison and stare at him with dark, worried eyes.

Will only smiles at them again and then he turns away. He walks right out his front door with nothing but the clothes on his back and a genie, which is the lamp, too. It is all his mind. The brain is a powerful thing, capable of much more than most people realize. Will Graham’s brain, in particular, is quite extraordinary. For the first time in his life though it’s actually doing him a favor.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will catches a ride with a long distance trucker who’s passing through on his way to wherever it is truckers go late at night. Will asks him to take him to the bus station. He gives the man directions and even offers him money for fuel, especially after Will decides they need to stop so he can withdraw a little extra cash from his bank’s ATM. He takes the maximum amount and offers the trucker fifty dollars of it, but once again the man refuses him and says the bus depot is on his way.

Will accepts that and settles back into his seat and lets another piece of this world fall away. The grass on the other side is so much greener, he can really see it now. He is checking out by degrees and soon he’ll be gone entirely. It’s like watching a shoreline erode. It is lovely to behold.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He buys a ticket for Chicago, Illinois. It’s not something he actually thinks about, he just picks a place and that happens to be it. Will is okay with that. Once he’s paid for his ticket, he goes to the restroom and throws away his credit cards and his identification. His last act before he steps off into his new world with its green grass is to write his name on his palm with the pen he stole from the ticket window. It’s not a conscious act, not really, but some little part of Will Graham is a bit apprehensive about this move. He thinks he should keep at least that much and having it written on his palm is a kind of insurance.

He gets on a bus an hour later with a little over 100 dollars in his pocket and his name written on the heel of his left hand: _My name is **WILL**_. These things are all he needs, he thinks and he is content with that. As the bus pulls away from the terminal, Will leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. Chunks of the earth that made up Will Graham fall away while he slumbers. By the time he reaches Chicago, only _My name is **WILL**_ will really remain.

This is his design.

**II**

He steps off the bus into Chicago’s early morning light with a bounce in his step and no idea anything is really wrong. He is here and that is all.

“I am here,” he says to himself with a small smile. He’s glad about this, but doesn’t know why. He doesn’t bother to try and figure it out. He tosses his ticket stub in the first trashcan he sees.

He walks out into the light of a new day and takes a left, letting his feet take him where they may. The wind Chicago is so famous for howls all around him. Will thinks it is like being in the throat of a giant wolf. Fenris, perhaps, come to swallow the world. He takes heart in that thought and walks on.

By dark-fall, Will is hopelessly lost and finally starting to panic a little bit. He doesn’t know where he’s at or what he’s doing here. He doesn’t even know where _here_ is and the one person he tried to ask pushed him away, muttering something about “damned crazies” as she strode past him. He knows he is **WILL** , he saw that on his palm when he went to the restroom at the diner he ate breakfast in. Then the soap washed even that away.

His earlier mood is gone because he doesn’t know where he’s going to sleep or how he’s going to eat. He has a little money now, but it won’t last long at all. Maybe only one more day, two at best and three if he stretches every dollar to its breaking point. He doesn’t know where he’s at or what he’s doing here. The buildings loom high above him and he stands on a street corner in the dusky light, staring up at their ever-darkening silhouettes. His insides feel quivery with panic. He wants someone to tell him where he is. He is alone and afraid and confused. He needs help. He needs someone to tell him who he is because all he knows is, _My name is **WILL**_.

Unsure what to do and exhausted, he keeps walking, keeps hoping he will find a friendly face and someone with an answer to give him. If they cannot tell him who he is, maybe they can at least tell him what to do so he doesn’t starve or die out here.

Finally, he can walk no more and takes refuge in a rundown little playground. He sits on a rusty bench that is likely meant for parents to occupy while they watch their children. Weeds grow through the cracks in the sidewalk here. It is an ugly place and it feels haunted. There are crows roosting in a scraggly tree, cawing at the darkness and Will shivers in his light coat. Summer’s coming on quickly, but not so fast that it’s taken the chill out of the night air or the teeth out of the wind entirely. Will hunches his shoulders against it and ducks his head, hair whipping around and tickling his ears. He closes his eyes and pays attention to the throbbing in his feet and muses on how it feels like the beat of a sick heart. It’s better than thinking about all the rest, all the things he doesn’t know about himself or where he’s wound up.

He manages to doze off sitting there and when he awakes, it is a few hours later. The streetlamps are all on, what of them work anyway and the sidewalks are coming to life again. Will doesn’t know what time it is, but he thinks of this difference like a shift change—the day world goes to bed or at least home where it hides behind locked doors. The night world slowly wakes up and stumbles out into the darkness, still groggy from the sunlit hours it was hidden away from. Now it’s in full effect, a living, breathing thing in the knots of people cluttering up the street corners. A few lean against light poles. Laughter can be heard from some of the shadows and in another cluster of darkness comes the sound of a low argument. Cigarette smoke coils into the air like phantom serpents.

Will takes it all in, blinking slowly and letting his eyes rake the little clusters, the few standalones. He watches as a car creeps down the street and stops at one of the clumps of people. A shadowy shape breaks away from the clump, words are exchanged that Will cannot hear and then the shape crosses in front of the car. In the flickering light of the lamp on the opposite sidewalk, Will can see a bit better. It’s a young man with golden hair and pale skin. He looks too thin, but Will can’t be sure. Then the young man gets in the car and it pulls away from the curb much faster than it approached.

Once the little show is over, Will’s worries start to creep back on him. Across the playground, the swings sway on rusty chains. They squeak with a repetitive, toneless rhythm that is grating on him so badly he finally gets up and walks away. Hands stuffed in his pockets and head ducked against the nosy fingers of the sharp wind, Will scans the faces he passes, looking for someone, anyone that has a face even the slightest bit friendly. He has questions he needs to ask because _he needs help_. Panic threatens to tighten his muscles as it skitters up his spine, but Will swallows past the dry click in his throat and tells himself to hang on.

One face at last seems to jump out to him. It’s a man leaning against one of the light poles. He’s maybe in his early 20s, tall with black hair in a braid that hangs below his waist and shines in the bad light. His face is angular and just shy of being _too_ sharp. As it is, however, the angles and harshness of his features lend him a kind of architectural beauty—all clean lines, sloping, hard angles and fine skin. His eyes are dark and seem deep as an ocean trench in the muddy light.

Will stops to stand in front of him and the man notices him, smiles and flashes his teeth. The glint of a tongue stud winks from his mouth like a lonely star. Will hears it clack lightly against the man’s teeth.

“Can you help me?” Will asks him.

“I can do anything you want me to,” the man says, smile turning sly and wolfish. He pauses for a beat and Will feels hope flutter in his chest. “For a price. Tell me what you want and I’ll tell you how much it’s gonna cost you.”

“I want answers,” Will says.

“Answers to what?” the man asks. His eyes are dancing with unvoiced laughter. “If you want to know where babies come from, you’re askin’ the wrong guy.”

“I want to know where I am,” Will says. He blows out a frustrated, shaky breath and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Do you know where _here_ is?”

“You’re in the city of Chicago, which is in the state of Illinois. The state of Illinois is in the country called the grand ol’ US of A,” he says. He leans forward to study Will better. He feels his sharp eyes rake over him like dragging fingers. “How the hell is it you don’t know where you’re at?”

“O-okay,” Will says. He lets another breath, this one slower and longer. He knows where he’s at. Good, that’s good. Chicago, Illinois, United States of America. It’s a start. _My name is **WILL**_ can find himself on a map now. Still…

“Can you help me?” Will asks again. The desperation in that question makes his voice crack. “I don’t know how I got here or where I’m from or…”

“You on somethin’?” the man asks him. He’s stopped threatening to charge Will, he’s too curious to worry about that right now.

“Like drugs?” Will asks. The guy rolls his eyes, but nods his head yes. Will shakes his head. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’ve been walking all day, trying to find answers. I don’t even remember… anything.”

“You don’t even know your name?” the guy asks.

“My name is Will,” he says. It’s automatic, the words out of his mouth in a rush. His name is an almost tangible thing to him; it’s the one answer he’s got.

“Will who?” he asks.

“I… don’t know,” Will answers. “Just Will. My name is Will.”

“And that’s the only thing you know?”

“ _Yes_ , damnit, that’s _all_ ,” Will says. “I don’t know where I’m from, what I do, who I am. I don’t even know how old I am. I have almost no money and nowhere to sleep. _I don’t know what to do._ ”

The guy is silent for a long time and Will looks down at the pavement. He can feel his eyes on him, prickling his skin with their frank appraisal and Will tries not to fidget. He doesn’t walk away because this is the first human contact he’s really had and he keeps thinking maybe this guy will give him answers. Although, in the back of his mind, Will’s pretty sure this man knows no more than he does now: His name is Will and he’s in Chicago, Illinois. He focuses on the sidewalk even more intently to shut up his doubts. There’s a sickly looking little dandelion growing out of a crack there. He wants to pick it, blow the fluff off and make a wish. He would wish for his knowledge of self back.

“I might can help you,” the man says.

Will’s head snaps up instantly at that. “Really?”

“Yeah,” the guy says. He’s got his hands in his pockets, rocking lightly back and forth on his heels. “I can’t tell you who you are or nothin’ like that, but I might can help you with shit like having some money and a place to sleep. I mean, anything’s better than fighting winos over sheets of cardboard, right?”

“Anything, yes,” Will says.

“Alright then, we’re cookin’ now,” he says. He motions for Will to follow him off into the darkness of a side street. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you to Mack. He’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” Will says. He’s shaking again, but this time it’s with gratitude. “What’s your name?”

“Spark,” the guy says.

“Spark? That’s unusual,” Will says. He thinks that probably isn’t his real name.

“Uh-huh, that’s ‘cause it’s fake,” Spark says. “It’s better than the one I was born with.”

Suspicion confirmed, Will only nods his understanding. “Why’d you pick Spark?”

“Because like a spark, I’m here,” Spark says as he waves one of his thin, elegant hands through the air. Then he snaps his fingers and his hand disappears back into his coat pocket. “And then I’m gone.”

His teeth are faint white outlines in the gloom when he grins. Somewhere a few blocks away, a train rumbles over some tracks high above the street.

“So… You’re really fast or something?” Will asks.

“No,” Spark says. “Because I probably won’t be here for very long.”

“Oh,” Will says. He can’t think of anything else to say to that, so he shuts up and follows Spark on to wherever it is he’s taking him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will ends up spending about half an hour standing in the hallway of an apartment building. It smells like cat pee and cigarette smoke, at least those are the most prominently bad odors. The rest is old cooking smells, cheap perfume, spilled liquor and a harsh, sharp smell reminiscent of burning plastic. He can hear Spark talking to someone he assumes is Mack.

“I know he’s kind of old, but not _that_ old, only like 34 at the most,” Spark says. “The dude’s all fucked up in the head or somethin’, but he’s not like some psycho though. ‘Sides, Mack, you said to look out for somebody that wasn’t no twinky ‘cause some of the customers don’t want what looks like baby ass. You said they’s getting creeped out and you needed somethin’ new. Well, I found you somethin’ _new_. Just take a look at the guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, but if I decide to keep him, he’s your responsibility ‘til he learns the ropes,” Mack says. “And if he does turn out to be some psycho mental defect then I’m gonna take it out of _your_ ass, Lawrence.”

“Okay, okay,” Spark says. “But c’mon, man, don’t call me that. It’s not my name.”

“Oh, alright, _Norman_ ,” Mack says.

Will is only partially listening to the conversation, but he has a bad feeling he’s just walked into something he’s going to want out of. Maybe he should’ve just kept walking past Spark—whose real name is Lawrence Norman or maybe Norman Lawrence—and found someone else. Now he doesn’t know what to do. He has no ID on him, no address that he can remember. He has nothing but a sentence written on his left hand, except even that’s gone now. What is he going to do? What is he _supposed_ to do?

Not this. Not this. Not this.

He is about half a second from bolting when the door pops open and Will finds himself looking right at Mack. Behind him is Spark and he gives Will a quick thumbs up over Mack’s shoulder. Will guesses he’s supposed to be glad about this meeting.

“Come in,” Mack says as he steps back from the door.

Will doesn’t know what else to do, so he crosses the threshold. When Mack slams the door behind him, he jumps and then looks up at Mack who’s stepped back around him.

Mack isn’t unattractive, but he’s led a rough life and that much is obvious. It’s taken its toll on his features regardless and his handsomeness, while still there, is an echo of what it once was. He has lovely, but hard, blue eyes the color of the autumn sky. His hair is such a light blonde it’s almost white. He’s powerfully built, with large hands he wastes no time in using to grab Will’s face with. Will freezes and stares at him with big eyes, afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe because he doesn’t know what Mack may do to him.

He uses his hands to turn Will’s face first one way and then the other. He leans in close enough that Will can smell the beer on his breath as he looks him over. Mack mutters something about Will’s eyelashes and how his eyes are a nice color, pretty even. 

“Let me see your teeth,” Mack says.

Not knowing what else to do, Will opens his mouth for him. Mack sticks one of his fingers in his mouth and pokes around. He pulls Will’s lips up, pushes the walls of his cheeks out and checks under his tongue for some reason. Will feels like a horse that’s up for trade or a dog for sale. _How much is that doggy in the window?_ Mack’s finger tastes vaguely of popcorn butter and nicotine.

“You take it up the ass?” Mack asks him once the dental exam is over. “I ain’t got room for some toppy ass motherfucker that thinks he’s too good to switch.”

“I—” Will starts. He stops because he doesn’t know the answer.

“Of course he’ll switch, Mack, be serious,” Spark cuts in for him.

“Shut your goddamned mouth,” Mack snarls. “If I want your opinion, I’ll fuckin’ ask for it.”

“Sorry, Mack,” Spark says.

“Well?” Mack asks Will.

“Yes,” Will says.

His voice comes out faint and shaking again. He wants to say, _No, I don’t do any of that because I am not a prostitute._ It keeps not happening though because he’s stuck. No matter how he looks at it, he is fucking stuck. Will has no ID, no last name, no home, no… _nothing_. There isn’t a reputable workplace in the world that would hire him. At that moment he feels desperate and sick with that desperation. It looks like a yawning black pit to nowhere. He feels alone. He feels like he is making a mistake. Will feels like he has no other choice.

“Good,” Mack says. “So, here’s how it works: You work the corner with Spark here until you figure shit out. If you want your own patch of walk after that then that’s up to you to claim. You always use condoms and no matter what the johns may offer you, you don’t give in on that. I find out about you doin’ somethin’ stupid like that and your ass it outta here. I run a clean operation, I don’t need some disease spreader ruining my good name just ‘cause some trick offered you twenty extra bucks to fuck you bareback. When you’re done for the night, you come back here to this very door and give me your money. I’ll count it out and keep sixty percent for myself. You get to keep the rest. Spark’ll talk to you about pricing, but first he’s gonna go get you some rubbers.”

That said, he turns around and shoves Spark.

“Going, going,” Spark says. “Fuck, Mack.” He disappears down a dark, claustrophobic looking hallway.

When he’s gone, Mack pins Will with his butcher blue eyes. “Do you understand everything I just told you?”

“Yes,” Will says. His voice isn’t much more than a whisper.

He is transfixed by Mack’s eyes. He looks into them and sees a young man a lot like Spark, but with pale hair and eyes, skin white as chalk but for a ginger dusting of freckles. He sees him on his knees in alleyways and bent over the hoods of anonymous cars. He sees him with split lips, scraped knuckles and skinned knees. He sees a man who survived and followed his particular career’s ladder up to the top. Now Mack stands before Will much like someone once stood before him. This is part of Mack’s design.

Will blinks at the thought and cocks his head, wondering where that came from. Mack distracts him though when Spark comes back with a handful of condoms in a rainbow of colors. He has a tiny tube with him, too. “You forgot to tell him about lube,” Spark says.

“Right,” Mack says as he plucks the lube from Spark’s hand. He gives Spark a brief smile, but Will thinks there are too many teeth in it for it to be all nice.

“Lube,” he says, turning back to Will and holding up the small tube. “Use it. If you get your ass torn up or fucked bloody out there then that means you won’t be able to work on your back for a couple of days, which costs me money—and you, too. So, remember to make the johns use the shit. They don’t wanna do it, tell ‘em to get lost.”

“Okay,” Will says. “Thank… Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mack says. He smiles at Will now. Will sees he has a gold cap on one of his jaw teeth. “Now, come on. I get first crack at it.”

“At what?” Will asks.

Mack stares at him and then he laughs. “Where’d you find this guy, Spark? He fall off a stupid truck while you’s standin’ around?”

Spark laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh. “He’s just green’s all,” he says.

“Motherfucker’s so green he ain’t even sprouted yet,” Mack says. “You’re kinda old to not have a clue.”

Will stares at him as it processes and when it does click, the bottom falls out of his stomach. “Oh,” he says. He licks his lips and nods, tells himself he won’t cringe away from this. He lifts his head and meets Mack’s eyes. “I’ve got the clue now.”

He manages to get it to come out level and steady. Inside, Will feels like he is screaming.

“Glad to hear it, sweet thing,” Mack says. He lightly pinches Will’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head back to look at him better. He’s got a good three inches on Will, maybe four. “You’ve got a good cocksucker’s mouth,” he notes. He says it offhandedly, like he’s making a mental note; adding it to the list of Will’s “pros”, he supposes. “Enough conversation,” he says abruptly, letting go of Will’s chin and stepping back to openly appraise him. “It’s time to see what you’ve got under those clothes and if you know how to use it.”

“Here?” Will asks, looking around the tiny living room. Spark’s standing off to the side, near the entry to what looks like an even tinier kitchen.

“Down the hall,” Mack says. He turns and begins walking away, motioning for Will to follow him.

Will tells himself to _run_ , to just get the fuck out and never come back and find some other way to survive. Some other way to _exist_ as the mystery he has become to even himself.

Spark gives him a quick smile. “You’ll be alright, he’s not mean or nothin’. He’s actually pretty good. You might like it and I mean… that’s… it doesn’t… Just go on, Will. It’s all cool, you’ll see.”

“Yeah,” Will says. He’s still telling himself to run when he takes his first step forward, towards Mack who’s waiting for him about halfway down the hall. He’s waiting to see if Will’s going to run, Will thinks. _Run!_ he screams at himself again. He takes another step forward. Then another. Another.

Before he knows it, he’s in Mack’s bedroom and the sheets are clean, which is a surprise. They’re cold against his naked back. His legs feel shaky, knees watery and he wants to close his eyes. He honestly thinks he may vomit. Instead he watches Mack take his shirt off. His belly ripples with muscle, his chest is hard with it and his arms are thick. He could reduce Will to a bloody pulp if he so desired.

When he turns around to throw his shirt on the small dresser he’s got shoved into a corner, Will sees he has a tattoo across his shoulders. In elaborate cursive script, it says: _**Do Unto Others**_.

Will shivers and closes his eyes then.

**III**

Mack isn’t rough or mean to him, but when it’s over, Will still feels cheap and dirty. He once again has to fight the urge to vomit even though there’s nothing in his stomach. His ass hurts, not badly, but it’s there, a dull ache that doesn’t seem to want to quit. He got very little, if anything out of it, other than a sense of ever-growing humiliation. The first tender shoots of self-loathing sit bitterly in the back of his throat. Some of them are because a couple of times, Mack did something that Will did like—or _almost_ liked. It was a flutter of pleasure low in his belly that could’ve been more had he been relaxed or Mack had taken his time. His cock is half hard when Mack pulls out of him and takes the condom off.

“Jesus Christ are you tight,” Mack gasps. “You ever bottomed before?”

_I don’t know_ , is Will’s automatic answer, but he swallows it down. “No,” is what he says instead.

“The tricks’ll love you,” Mack said. “You ever get one into role playing that lets you pick, try the virgin angle. You can pull that shit off no problem.”

“Sure,” Will says. He’s staring up at the ceiling. He’s feeling his semi-erection wilt back to nothing. He’s feeling the faint stickiness of the lube drying in the crack of his ass. He wants to put his clothes back on. “Can I get dressed now?”

“Yeah,” Mack says. He doesn’t sound concerned with Will’s hurry to clothe himself and get out. He understands it, Will thinks.

Will stands up from the bed and jumps when Mack slaps his ass, a hard, resounding smack that makes him yelp. He whips around to stare at him, instantly angry. Mack sees it, but only shrugs one shoulder. “That’s a prize piece you’re sitting on. Use it well,” is all he says. He plumps the pillow under his head and motions at the door. “Now, get the fuck outta here and go make some money.”

Will watches him for another moment, notices the way his pale eyelashes fan out in the hollows of his eyes when he closes them. Then he shuffles around and pulls his clothes on. He doesn’t forget to take the lube with him when he goes.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Spark’s waiting for him in the kitchen, eating a bag of popcorn, but he looks up when Will walks in. “How’d it go?” he asks.

“Peachy,” Will says. His head hurts faintly and he rubs at his temples. “He said we have to leave. Need to go make money.”

“That’s about all Mack worries about. That and free ass when he feels like it,” Spark says with a shrug. “Let’s go then.”

He walks around Will and he follows him out of the apartment and back into the cat-piss scented hallway. Spark shares his popcorn as they go and Will’s thankful. It seems to sop up some of the roiling acid in his gut.

As they walk, Spark fills him on pricing and tells him that if the john wants anything “extra” then it kind of goes by kink and how hardcore said kink is. Will thinks that’s pretty vague, so he asks for clarification.

Spark gives him a quick rundown—spanking is 20 extra, spanking with a paddle or belt is 35 extra. Holding him down, that’s 40. Rape fantasies, no matter what kind, are 200. It’s the same for anything that has too much S&M flavor—whipping, flogging, slapping or punching. Spark says the high price helps discourage the really bent kinkers. Most role playing is around 60 as well, but props and costumes—even if the john provides them and some will, Spark informs him—cost 75.

He tells Will he _can_ say no if they’re asking him to do something he’s not okay with. If they want it bad enough then they’ll find someone else to give it to them, no big deal.

Spark stops about halfway back to the place they met and turns to look at Will. “Here’s the bottom line shit: Never, ever agree to do something that may make you or them bleed. If they want to, say, whip you then you tell them that up front. If they do it anyway, game’s over and it’s time for you to take your money and split. No burning at all and no hitting that will leave a bruise or welt that lasts longer than a couple of days. Don’t let them even get close to your face if they’re into that shit,” he says.

He’s dead serious as he speaks and Will listens attentively while he watches a moth flutter and swoop around Spark’s dark head. “Never, ever, _ever_ let them tie you down, no matter how much extra they offer you. Nothin’ good comes from that kind of shit, not usually. At least not with people in our line of work. And finally, the most important thing of all is that you always ask for payment up front. Work out the details and add up the cost in your head. They spring surprises on you then you straight up tell ‘em that’s gonna be even more extra. They don’t wanna pay, you tell ‘em _adios_. You got all that?”

“Yes,” Will says. “I didn’t know this was all so complicated.”

“You think we just hang out, get picked up and what? Have vanilla sex, get paid and go back to the pavement?” Spark asks him with the corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin.

“I don’t know what I thought,” Will says. Spark has no idea how very true that statement really is.

“Well, you know better now,” Spark says and then he starts walking again.

When they get back to where Spark was standing when Will met him there’s a homeless woman digging in an rickety old shopping cart full of junk right in front of the light pole. Will stands back while Spark runs her off. There is yelling involved and the woman threatens to stab him. Spark counters by asking her what she plans to do that with, the stumps of her fuckin’ teeth? Eventually, the woman trundles off into the night, throwing a few choice insults over her shoulder every few feet or so that Spark ignores.

Will joins him by the light pole after she’s gone, but he slips into the shadows that pool around the building behind it. Spark catches him at it and shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, dude, front and center,” he says. “Ain’t nobody gonna see ya if you’re hiding back there. The point of this shit is to _be seen_.”

He eases out of the comforting darkness and wraps his arms around himself, drawing his shoulders in. Spark sighs and pushes his shoulder. “Don’t do that either,” he says. “You _want_ people to see you and you _want_ them to think you’re a good time. Don’t nobody wanna fuck some shy weirdo actin’ like a junkie. Dig?”

“Not really,” Will says. Except that’s not true, not completely. He unwraps his arms from his torso and leans against the light pole next to Spark, trying to copy his lazy stance.

“That’s better,” Spark says with a grin. “You’re all nervous and shit right now, I know, but you get over it. Wait and see.”

Will doesn’t want to wait and see. Still, he stands there and stares straight ahead into the murky darkness across the street. It reminds him of a nightmare, the sickly yellow light, the shadows swooping down from the buildings like bat wings. There is the faint sound of rap music coming from somewhere. It’s all about shooting cops then getting new shoes before going to fuck some bitches.

Will wonders how those things are related. Maybe the shoes are bought in celebration for shooting the cop. The new shoes maybe give the speaker the confidence he needs to go cruising for a nice bitch he’d like to fuck. Perhaps she approves of his taste in footwear and finds the idea acceptable. And maybe Will is over-thinking the lackluster lyrics to a stupid song as a way to distract himself. He doesn’t even know what kind of music he likes, but now he’s pretty sure it isn’t rap. That leaves him with only a few hundred more genres and subgenres to choose from. It makes him feel tired and anxious all at the same time.

“Does it really get better?” he asks Spark about half an hour later.

“What?” Spark asks. He’s fighting with a cheap disposable lighter, trying to light a cigarette.

“This,” Will says. “You said it gets better. Does it really?”

“Oh,” Spark says. He finally gets his lighter to cooperate and says, “Ha, motherfucker!” under his breath. He lights his cigarette and blows smoke out of his nose. “I said you get used to it and you do. With gettin’ used to it, yeah, I guess it gets easier, but I’m not too sure about _better_. You just gotta learn not to think about it too much.”

“How do you not think about?” Will asks.

“You look at it as just another job,” Spark says. “When that doesn’t work, you get drunk or do some drugs. You’ll forget then for sure. It’s good enough. Oh and hey, before I forget, you always ask if they’re a cop. They have to tell you. That’s the _very first_ thing you gotta do. Remember that.”

Will nods and resumes staring out into the darkness across the street. He doesn’t know how this has happened. Sure, he remembers all the steps it took him to get from point A to point B, but that isn’t what he means. He even knows why he didn’t run when he told himself to, when Mack more or less gave him the _opportunity_ to. Instead, he’d gone into the back room of a cheap apartment and let a stranger fuck him for what may or may not have been the first time. If he shifts just right, he can still feel the dully aching reminder of that.

Will closes his eyes and tries not to think about that. The end of the point is this and even though he knows the steps it took to get from there to here, he still really cannot understand how it happened. He thinks for a second and realizes the better way to put it is: He doesn’t understand how he _let_ this happen. Then he sighs because even that, he knows the why of. So, here he stands on a cold street corner in late spring with a man he barely knows, waiting for a stranger to pick him up and pay him for sex.

~*~*~*~*~*~

An hour later a car pulls up to the curb and a fat man with a florid face leans over the seat to look at Spark and Will. He points at Will and says, “You.”

Will goes to lean in the window and tries to make eye contact, but can’t quite do it. He picks a point somewhere to the left of the man’s jowly face. “What do you want?”

“I want a suck job,” the man says.

There’s no hesitation in what he says. He’s done this before, probably lots of times. He’d be unattractive even if he was thin and his vehicle suggests he doesn’t even have money to overcompensate with. This man is probably destined for a lifetime of a being alone and jerking off to dispel that loneliness. When even that doesn’t cut it, he comes here for a little company that isn’t a television set or a dirty magazine. He’s bitter about it. Will bets he will pull his hair, his fingers are already clenching and unclenching where one hand still grips the steering wheel. He’s imagining doing it already. His eyes are feverish with hungry want.

“Are you a cop?” Will asks him while all of that reels through his head so quickly he feels dizzy.

The man snorts. “No,” he says. This is old hat to him. “Are you?”

“No,” Will says.

“Then can we do business?”

_No_ , Will thinks. He says, “Yes.”

“Then get in,” the fat man says.

Will nods and opens the passenger door. He slides into the truck. It smells like old sweat and stale fried chicken. Beneath it is the odor of motor grease. Will notices the man has grease under his fingernails. He’s a mechanic and probably a good one. Will doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does. He can blink and see the man working away under the hood of a car and there, he is a maestro; he is an artist.

They find an alley that’s almost totally wrapped in darkness. When the john kills his truck, Will can hear feral cats growling, gearing up for a fight. “How much?” the john asks him.

“Thirty,” Will says.

“Shit, that’s steep,” he says. “I usually pay twenty.”

“You get what you pay for,” Will says with a grin that feels like flaking paint. His teeth are cheap plastic parts.

“Oh yeah?” the john asks. He takes his wallet out and starts counting. “Alright then, let’s see about that.”

“Sure,” Will says. He holds out his hand for the money and when the john gives it to him, Will slips the money into his pocket and pulls out a condom as he withdraws his hand.

“Put this on,” Will says.

“You put it on,” the john says. “In the alley. There’s not enough room in here.”

Will lets out a silent breath of relief. He was wondering how he was supposed to fit his head between the steering wheel and the man’s prodigious gut. He had a brief flash of worry when he pictured his head getting stuck there, a strange cock forever crammed in his mouth.

He nods and opens his door to get out. He can hear the cats growling even louder now. They’re somewhere down at the far end of the alley and the sound of humans moving around this far away doesn’t dissuade them at all. He thinks about the cats as he moves around to the driver’s side of the truck. It’s better than thinking about what he’s about to do, about how he’s fixing to put a condom that’s the bright red of a circus balloon on a stranger’s penis. Then he’s going to get down on his knees and suck that penis. All for the low, low price of thirty damned dollars.

Will does it though and his hands are steady as he rolls the slippery latex onto the man’s short, fat dick. It occurs to him with an almost jittery sense of twisted amusement that prostitution is not a career one eases into. It’s all or nothing straight out of the gate. It makes Will feel dizzy.

“Yeah,” the john says when, on what’s almost a whim, Will gives his cock a couple of quick, light strokes. “Get it good and hard, baby, that’s it.”

Will tries not to grimace, but does make a note to ask Spark if they can charge extra for cheesy dirty talk. Out loud, he says, “Yeah? You like that? Want me to do it some more?”

He can’t believe what just came out of his mouth. He doesn’t even feel like himself. Which is funny considering he doesn’t _really_ even know who _he_ is. Even still, it’s like he’s standing slightly outside of himself and watching what he’s doing. It makes him feel like he’s suffering from mild vertigo.

“No, I want you on your knees,” the john says.

His breath is already rough. He’ll be quick, Will thinks, if he can figure out the best way to do this. Mack didn’t make Will blow him and so far, that’s the only practice he’s had in the prostitution department. Will is pretty sure he’s not stupid though, so he’s betting the house on being a quick learner. God, he hopes he’s a quick learner.

Will sinks to his knees onto the gritty, nasty concrete and smells the sour stench of the john’s crotch sweat. He grimaces, head bowed and glad for the truly terrible light in the alleyway. He can do this. He has to do this. He closes his eyes, opens his mouth and leans forward.

The lube on the condom makes his mouth tingle and his lips go a little numb, but the john seems to like what he’s doing. Will figures out that he likes when he sucks him with unrelenting pressure all the way up his stumpy length. He keeps it steady, working out what’s too much pressure and what’s not enough. He has it figured out within a minute and then it’s disturbingly smooth sailing. Will keeps his eyes closed the whole time and tries to keep his breathing shallow.

Down the alley, the cats finally grow tired of posturing and attack one another with a screaming, spitting clash. Metal trashcans overturn and roll off down the alley with rumbling clatters. One of the cats screams in pain and then the other does. Will lets that be his soundtrack instead of the panting of the sweating man above him.

When he comes, he uses Will’s hair to pull his face right against his crotch. Will can feel his fingers twisting in the strands and he makes a soft sound of pain that’s followed with one of disgust as he feels the thick, heavy heat of the man’s semen filling the condom. He’s so unbelievably glad there is a condom there to catch the mess and keep it out of his mouth.

Will stands up when the john lets go of his hair and stands back as he strips off the rubber and tosses it into the darkness. One of the cats is making a pitiful sound, obviously injured and maybe badly so. The victor is silent, perhaps already gone. Will feels like the loser, but he ignores the pain in his knees and thinks about the thirty dollars in his pocket instead. That’s a cup of coffee and a sandwich, maybe a candy bar. It’ll do.

The john gives him a ride back to the street light and when he gets there, Will finds that Spark is gone. It kind of surprises him when the john tells him to have a good night and really seems to mean it. Will automatically responds with, “You, too.”

Once he’s gone off into the night again, Will wipes his mouth and spits onto the concrete to try and get the faintly chemical taste of spermicide off his tongue. He wishes he had some gum and makes plans to buy some as soon as he can.

Spark comes back about ten minutes later and without him needing to ask, he gives Will a stick of gum. He’s noisily chewing a piece of his own as he leans against the pole and lights a cigarette.

“Thanks,” Will says.

“Welcome,” Spark says. He rolls his neck and then works his jaw. “Goddamn, guy was hung like a mule.”

Will has nothing to say to that, so he just nods. Spark notices him, sees the look on his face and snuffs out a soft laugh. “You’re kinda uptight.”

“I am?” Will asks. Then he thinks about it and nods. “I am.”

“Yuh-huh,” Spark says. He cuts his eyes over to look at Will. “How’d you end up here?”

“I don’t know,” Will says. He’s talking to his feet, hands balling into tense fists.

“Did you get hit on the head or something?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Will says again. He’s talking through his teeth now and still staring at his feet. He’s not upset with Spark, he’s upset with himself and starting to get scared about that stuff again. Mixing that with the low, simmering fear in his belly about the shit he’s stepped in here is not a pleasant combination.

Spark’s quiet for a few minutes after that, but Will can feel him watching him even though he’s taken up staring into the darkness across the street again. “So, you really don’t know _shit_ , like for real?”

“For real,” Will confirms. He stares into the darkness, not even blinking and proceeds to tell Spark what he knows. It isn’t much and it doesn’t take very long. “My name is Will. I’m in Chicago, Illinois, which is in the United States. I’m standing on a street I don’t know the name of, waiting for strangers to stop and pay me to give them blow jobs. Your name is Spark, but it’s not the name you were born with and the other guy’s name is Mack. It’s dark and I’m kind of cold. I feel really dirty. _That_ is all I know for sure.”

“Whoa,” Spark says. He flicks ash from the end of his cigarette then pushes away from the lamp post. “You’re fucked, dude.”

“I am aware,” Will says. He chews on his bottom lip for a second, tastes the residual spermicide there and stops.

“You wanna go get some coffee?” Spark asks. “There’s a shop around the corner that’s open all night. We can maybe grab a bite to eat, too and warm up a little.”

Will is hungry and a cup of coffee would be like heaven right now, so he nods. “Yes, I would like that.”

Will pays for his coffee, a cup of chicken and stars soup and a half a turkey sandwich out of his small cash supply. He is painfully aware of the other thirty dollars in his pocket, sixty percent of which belongs to Mack. He doesn’t feel like he can spend it until he’s had that percentage taken out. He’s learning already.

They eat inside the warm confines of the convenience store. The clerk, a middle-aged woman who looks bored with existence itself, reads a tabloid and pays them little attention. When they’re done eating Will buys a big pack of Ice Breakers gum and then it’s back to work.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Not five minutes after they’re back, a car pulls up with two guys in it. They have Massachusetts accents and are wearing wedding rings. They want Will and Spark both and so, they go. Will’s second experience of the night finds him once more kneeling in an alley with the taste of latex, lube and spermicide in his mouth. These men are cleaner and don’t talk dirty or otherwise, thankfully. They simply lean over to kiss one another while Will sucks one and Spark sucks the other. After the two men have come and thrown the condoms away, they zip up and ask Spark to suck Will off while they watch.

Will starts to refuse, has his mouth open to do so. He’s not even hard and he doesn’t know if he can get hard, but Spark touches his arm lightly and says, “That’s extra if you want us to do that.”

“How much extra?” one of them asks.

His wedding ring glints in the light coming down the alley as he reaches in his pocket for a wad of cash. It’s a stupid move to flash that kind of money around, but he seems confident. Will thinks he may have a weapon of some kind. Either that or he’s just an arrogant prick and stupidly so.

Spark mulls it over for a second then says, “It’s sixty, thirty for me and thirty for him. Pay up front, same as before.”

The man peels the bills off the wad in his hand; three tens go to Will, a ten and a twenty goes to Spark. The money disappears into their pockets and Spark comes out with a condom after it’s gone. He looks at Will for a second and he swears he looks apologetic, but business is business and that’s how this business goes. Will is a commodity, a good to be bought and sold at the whims of others. He is here for their entertainment. He wants to sink into the pavement.

Spark’s hands on his waist are light and gentle. As he unzips Will’s jeans and pushes him against the car to position him, he says one thing before sinking to his knees, “Relax, Will.”

Will closes his eyes the second he feels Spark’s hand slip into the fly of his boxers. He hears one of the men, the one with the wad of cash, say, “My God, look at his eyelashes.”

“They’re beautiful,” the other says.

Will almost flinches then makes himself hold still when he feels the pad of the stranger’s thumb stroke lightly over his eyelashes. He breathes slowly through his nose and listens to the crinkle of the condom wrapper as Spark tears it open. Then he says something that endears him to Will forever, “Touching is extra. It’s sixty to watch, if you want to join in then that’s another eighty.”

The thumb disappears with a slight grumble from the toucher, but they don’t produce more cash. Will has to catch himself to keep from sagging against the side of the car with relief. Spark’s hands—elegant hands, Will reminds himself and then allows himself to picture them—touch his hips, lightly bracing against the slight jut of bone there. Then wet warmth slowly engulfs him. He can feel the moistness of Spark’s saliva even through the latex of the condom and although he’s limp right now, it doesn’t take long for him to start responding. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help himself. His body likes what is being done to it and all of those little signals run along his nerve endings from his dick to his brain and back again.

Before long, Will is gently thrusting into Spark’s clever mouth and panting softly. His hands are balled into tense fists at his sides and he startles when he feels hands on him again. His eyes pop open this time and he looks down to find Spark looking back up at him. He gently massages Will’s wrists until he uncurls his fingers and lets them hang, lets himself feel his blood rushing into them and circulating around. His palms sting from where he dug his nails into the flesh there. He tells himself to close his eyes, but he can’t manage it.

He stares at Spark’s lips wrapped around him. Half of his almost lupine face is in dingy yellow light, the other is engulfed in shadows. He is all hollows and angles and he’s beautiful to look at. He has his mouth on Will and his pulse is a stuttering hammer in his chest as he watches. Spark smiles around his cock, just the head in his mouth and then he slowly slides back down Will’s length. When he does, he begins to hum. Will recognizes the tune as “Three Blind Mice”. He barks out a laugh right as his orgasm slams into him and his hips jerk. Spark holds onto him and pushes him back so he doesn’t shove his cock down his throat. Will is smiling as he gasps and pants and watches Spark suck him dry.

When it’s all over and they’re back by the light pole, Will wonders if that counted as a foursome. He thinks maybe it did. “Have you ever done anything like that before?” he asks.

“Nope,” Spark says. “First time for everything though, right?”

“Right,” Will says. “I’m having a lot of firsts today.”

“I can’t even imagine how bad your head is messed up for you to be out wandering around and not knowing anything ‘cept your name,” Spark says. “You’ve gotta be kinda loo-loo, man, I’m just sayin’.”

“I feel _very_ loo-loo,” Will says. “You really have no idea how damned _loo-loo_ I feel.”

Spark grins and shakes his head. His hair has partially come undone and falls over his face, but doesn’t muffle his soft laughter. “No, I don’t,” he says. “I ain’t even gonna try to pretend. But look, about that back there, I know you’re nervous and if I freaked you out then ya know, I guess I’m sorry.”

“You guess?” Will asks. “And it’s okay. I mean, it… I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I think I must be doing something right. And thanks for being nice to me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you? You’re alright enough and are without a doubt the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time. You’re like a puzzle.” Spark leans against the light pole and blows cigarette smoke up at the city night sky. Then he cuts his eyes to the side with a sharp little grin. “You’re a seriously hot loo-loo lost boy. If the situation was different and all that, I’d have sucked your dick for free, if you really wanna know. That’s why I _guess_ ,” Spark says.

Will chokes and then laughs, the sound startled and loud, echoing down the sidewalk. A group of younger hustlers down the way turns to look in their direction and Spark flips them off then yells for them to mind their own. Will counts three different hair colors in the group before they fade into the shadows of a busted streetlamp and become nothing more than blacker shapes within the darkness.

He sips his coffee after his laughter dies down again and kind of wishes he’d gotten a bigger cup. Depending on how long they’re out here, he may need to go back to the store. Apparently he’s a big fan of coffee. Spark seems to be as well since it was his idea they go around to the convenience store for more after the tricks dropped them off. Now they’re standing around and drinking it. Will thinks this is what passes for water cooler conversation with prostitutes. It’s morbidly amusing and he bites back a grin.

“Thanks, I think,” Will says.

“You’re welcome, I know,” Spark says back.

They lapse into silence after that. Spark tends to talk in bursts, but mostly seems to be content with quiet. Will’s not sure why, but he likes that about him, likes that Spark isn’t some nonstop chatterbox. Will’s pretty sure someone like that would drive him up the wall.

Will’s coffee is almost gone when another car pulls up to the curb. “Oh, yeah, it’s the judge,” Spark says, speaking low and quickly. “If he ever decides he wants you, go with him. The judge will take care of you if you ever get busted and end up in his courtroom. Be extra nice and he may even put a bug in some of the pigs’ ears to leave you the hell alone.”

The window on the lovingly tended classic Mercedes rolls down and a deep, cultured voice says, “Spark.”

Spark hops-to and is gone before Will can think of a reply. He makes a mental note about the car and finds himself hoping that one day the judge will pick him. This is a line of work that curbing favors where one can is probably important.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s only a few minutes after Spark leaves before another car cruises down the street, makes the block then comes back around and stops beside Will. This part of the routine is easy and he’s learned it already. He gets down to business at once, asks if the guy’s a cop, gets the “no” answer and is satisfied. He slides into the car with him. Will’s stomach is a mess of butterflies. This newest customer wants to fuck him. Before he ever opened the door, Will told him the lube rule and the guy nodded. He even brought his own. Will thinks that’s handy and that he has, yet again, got another one that’s familiar with the workings of picking up hookers. It’s kind of amazing how many people seem to do this on a regular basis.

The man finds yet another alley—at this rate, Will’s going to be familiar with every one of them in the neighborhood. He tells Will to get out of the car. He’s all business, no chit-chat at all. He has kind of mean eyes, but maybe that’s just the light.

Will tries to study him, tries to get a better look at him, but the guy says, “Turn around, drop your pants and bend over the hood.” Will still moves too slow to suit Mr. Business and when he barks, “ _Now_ , I don’t have all goddamned night,” Will has no choice but to comply. It’s that or lose a trick. He doesn’t like the guy, but he’s not actually afraid of him either, so he thinks telling him the deal’s off would just be him being a fraidy cat.

So, Will does as he is told and feels like a fucking _hole_. He passes the guy a condom, but he shoves his hand away. “I have my own,” he says.

He reaches around to show it to Will and he nods. He hears the snap of medical gloves shortly thereafter and figures Mr. Business had them in his trouser pocket. Not long after, there are two cold, slippery fingers pressing inside of him at once. Will winces and grits his teeth as those fingers work inside of him, aggravating the lingering soreness Mack left behind. Mr. Business curves his fingers inside of Will just so and it’s like sparks fly up his backbone. It’s the fully realized version of what he only had a hint of earlier with Mack. He moans and bucks his hips back against the fingers inside of him, the reaction purely instinctual.

“Be quiet and be still,” Mr. Business says.

Will nods and tries to, but his hips give sharp little jerks every now and then. Mr. Business seems to excuse those at least, maybe he understands that Will can’t help everything. He’s fucking him with his fingers hard and fast, Will can hear the lewd, wet sounds of the lube and the faint squeak of the rubber gloves as he moves his fingers inside of him. He’s sweating and the second it beads on his skin, the wind comes down the alley to coast over him and leave him covered with chill bumps.

An unbidden whining sound comes up from his throat. On the heels of it is a rush of heat that spreads across his cheeks and another twist of dislike for Mr. Business. He’s getting off on getting Will off. Not because he likes to see his pleasure, but because he likes giving it even when it’s not really wanted. It’s a twisted kind of sadism at work here, Will realizes and on the heels of that he thinks he should’ve charged the guy extra. Even as he thinks it, the guy adds a third finger and runs all three over the spot inside of him. Will almost cries out, but reminds himself he’s supposed to be quiet. That is a cruel thing to demand of someone when you’re doing such things to their body.

Will is breathing heavy and hard through his nose, his fingers biting into the sweat-slippery metal of the car under his hands. His orgasm is right there, so close, but just out of reach and it’s frustrating. He wants to move back against the fingers inside of him, but he has to be still. It’s making him shake with want, with the desire to move and rock against Mr. Business’s fingers so he can claim his pleasure—his prize.

When it abruptly stops, Will almost collapses on top of the car in his frustration. They’ve been here about fifteen or twenty minutes now and Spark told him to never go over half an hour if he doesn’t have a room, but Will’s so hard he hurts. He’s _thisclose_ to begging Mr. Business to put his fingers back inside of him so he can have some relief.

It’s when Mr. Business begins to push his cock inside of him that Will rethinks that. He recalls Spark saying one of his tricks was hung like a mule. Well, so is this guy and it _hurts_. The lube and fingering has helped, but Jesus fucking Christ. He’s going _so slow_ that Will has to grit his teeth to keep from whimpering at the discomfort. He hears the sound of the lube opening again and feels more of it run down the crack of his ass then there’s fingers rubbing it around. He’s tense and aching and still so fucking hard because pleasure is a snapping turtle in his belly. It has latched onto Will because of this sadistic fucker and it won’t let go until it thunders. He does not know why he thinks that, but he knows it’s a superstition of some sort.

“You are marvelously tight,” Mr. Business says as he continues to ease inside of Will. His voice is strained and he sounds short of breath.

Will says nothing, he’s supposed to keep his mouth shut after all. Besides, he knows that already. He knew it before Mack ever told him because he _felt_ it when he fucked him.

Mr. Business gives one last shove and pushes Will hard against the car. It rocks under the sudden force of his weight against it and Will grunts at the flash of pain that causes. He can feel himself stretched tight around Mr. Business’s cock and it’s an achingly full sensation, but there’s pleasure skulking around in there somewhere. He can feel it in the way his heart is beating heavy in the back of his throat. If he was used to this—he supposes that’s the right term—then he thinks he may kind of like it. But he’s still new to all of this and his poor body’s just not accustomed to such things yet.

When Mr. Business finally starts to fuck him, he’s as quick and hard with it as he was the fingering. Will’s mouth falls open as pain and pleasure bloom under his skin. He closes his eyes and sees thorn roses tearing through his whole body, his cells the opening petals. It’s such a cliché, the flowers, but the pictures in his head are a different beast of the imagination. He gasps and starts to move with the man, to try and ease some of the pressure and only stops when his large, hard hands dig into his hips.

“What did I tell you?” the man says. “ _Be still_. If you do it again, I’ll stop.”

Yes, the son of a bitch knows _exactly_ what he’s done and the quick stab of anxiety that follows his threat makes Will nod his head.

“Say you’re sorry,” the man says.

“I’m sorry,” Will says.

He stops moving inside of him anyway and Will feels a shivering shake run up his spine. A throb of pleasure bursts low in his belly and he wants the rest of it. _All_ of it. He thinks he could genuinely come to hate this man. He knows he should’ve charged him extra, but he was sneaky. He didn’t give much sign of what he was doing until it was really too late.

“Say it again,” Mr. Business says.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Will says. His voice is a raw rasp and there is humiliation like an itch at the top of his spine and a wad of tingling, burning nerves at the bottom. He feels the man run his hand over that bundle of nerves, pressing down as he rocks forward again. Another throb of pleasure follows that and Will’s mouth falls open on a helpless little moan.

“Now beg me for it,” Mr. Business says.

“No,” Will chokes out. He will not beg.

“No?” A rock of his hips against his ass, another throb of pleasure that’s laced with pain. It’s like powdered glass and velvet twisting inside of him.

“N— _Oh_ ,” Will gasps and hangs onto the hood as the man fucks into him hard, once, twice and then he stops again. He’s not impatient at all, Will realizes through the fog in his mind. This man is cruelly patient in a way Will never would’ve suspected.

He tries to follow, to ride the rhythm, but makes himself stop. He feels like he is being pulled in about thirty different directions at once. When the man pulls almost completely out of him, Will’s voice is different when he says, “No, please don’t.”

“No, what?”

“No, please don’t stop. Don’t stop fucking me,” Will manages to get out. His breathing is ragged, he’s slicked with sweat and shaking like a fucking leaf. He _hates himself_ for this.

“Again,” Mr. Business says. He leans over Will’s back, enveloping him in a cloud of cologne and cinnamon scented breath mints.

“Please, fuck me, don’t stop,” Will says. He’s talking through his teeth, fingers squeaking against the car. He has the feeling Mr. Business is waiting for some kind of magic word or phrase. Maybe one he’s not even sure he wants, but Will bets he’s been waiting for years, doing just this kind of thing, hoping to hear it. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lifts his head to look over his shoulder at Mr. Business. “ _Use me_ ,” Will says. 

He has a split second to see the look on Mr. Business’s face. His eyes go hot and cold at the same time, his mouth parts a little to let out the breath he’s been metaphorically holding for years, maybe since he was a teenager. He slams back inside of Will hard enough they rock the car again. He gave Mr. Business what he wanted and in turn, he got _exactly_ what he wanted. Deep down inside, he still feels dirty and low and disgusting for what he’s just done, but goddamn at the way the garden grows inside of him.

Will drops his head and braces himself the best he can as pain and pleasure twist up his spine like a dragon. He feels a bead of sweat run down the bridge of his nose and swears he can hear it when it hits the car hood. Then Mr. Business is digging his fingers into Will’s hips and pulling him back against him and when Will cries out once, the sound sharp and loud, he doesn’t shush him this time. Will though, he bites his lip against anymore sounds like that because it’s _too_ loud for what they’re doing—and where they’re doing it at.

“Say it again,” Mr. Business says.

“Use me,” Will gasps. “Use me, use me, use me.”

He pants it over and over and every time he says it, Mr. Business fucks him even harder seems like. Will’s pulse is a red light behind his eyelids even in the dark alley, the heartbeat of a blossom about to explode into a million points of light along his neural pathways. He’s pushed himself up even more, head tipped back and sweating, wind-chilled face turned to the sky. He can feel Mr. Business’s breath on his shoulder through his clothes. He can hear the scrabble of rats in the garbage strewn along the alleyway. He can hear his own heartbeat like the roar of ocean surf in his ears. He can taste his heartbeat, copper-cream red, on the back of his tongue.

“Use—,” Will tries to say once more, but his orgasm cuts him off. It bleeds through him and makes him shake. He whines through his gritted molars as his front teeth press hard into his bottom lip. His body feels like a livewire, stretched taut to the point of snapping like a rubber band and then the tidal surge washes over him. He drops his head and shakes even harder. It seems like it will never end, a slow flood of pleasure leaking into his blood like nitrogen bubbles.

Mr. Business fucks him through his orgasm, through his body’s contractions and Will feels the responding ache marry with the washing pleasure and he cries out again. The sound is mostly trapped in the abused flesh of his lips and the enamel of his teeth.

“ _Yes_ ,” Mr. Business says a couple of minutes later.

Will is boneless now, panting and whimpering softly while he waits for Mr. Business to be done with him. That one word lets him know it’s over and he’s so glad he could do a dance if he trusted his legs to hold him for it. He had no idea such things as what just transpired were possible. He may hate him, but Will thinks Mr. Business is a man who knows precisely what to do.

He pulls out of Will unceremoniously and the ache that follows makes him bite his lip again. The messy sound of his lube-slicked cock leaving him makes Will’s stomach flip a little bit.

“Pull your pants up and come on if you want a ride back,” Mr. Business says.

Will straightens and pulls his jeans back up as quick as he can. When he looks up again, Mr. Business is holding out a one hundred dollar bill. “For the extra,” he says. At the look on Will’s face, he smirks.

_Bastard_ , Will thinks even as he snatches the money from him. He keeps his mouth shut though and gets back in the car. Sitting down makes him wince, but aside from the mess of lube—he wants a shower, desperately so—he thinks he’s okay. It may’ve hurt, but Will doesn’t think the man fucked him bloody, to paraphrase Mack’s earlier eloquence. His lip curls a little at the recollection, but he stops himself and stares out the window.

When they pull up to the curb again, Mr. Business says, “Can I see you again?”

Will thinks for a second then remembers the hundred bucks in his pocket. “Yes,” he says. What surprises him is how much dirtier that makes him feel. He was kind of starting to think that wasn’t possible.

“Good,” Mr. Business says. “Now get out of my car.”

Will doesn’t need to be told twice. He stumbles, but catches himself on the doorframe and gets himself sorted out. He’s barely shut the door before Mr. Business is zipping off down the street again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Spark is back and he takes one look at Will and the way his hands shake when he pushes his hair out of his eyes and says, “Okay, we’re done for the night.”

“Already?” Will asks.

“You’re wrecked, man,” Spark says. “You caught a live one and he did you funny, right?”

“Did me funny…,” Will muses. “He didn’t rape me if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not what I mean, no,” Spark says. “I mean he did you funny—he fucked you and made you like it, right? Some of them really get off on that shit.”

“Oh,” Will says. That’s not quite all he did, but it’ll do for now and he’s fine with Spark not knowing the details.

When he doesn’t elaborate, Spark just nods. “Thought so,” he says. “C’mon, let’s go count out to Mack and then I’ll take you to the motel.”

“Motel?” Will asks.

“Damn, you’re really out of it, man,” Spark says as he takes Will’s arm to get him moving down the sidewalk. “What the hell happened?”

“I think… I think you could safely say he fucked my brains out,” Will says.

Spark laughs back. “I guess so ‘cause you’re loopy as fuck right now.”

“I hate him,” Will says about half a block later.

“I know the kind,” Spark says.

They carry on the rest of their way in silence, make it to Mack’s and let him count out their pay. He’s impressed with Will’s obvious earning potential and even offers him and Spark a beer. Spark accepts, but Will says he’ll pass. He thinks this may’ve been a pretty good night, but they won’t all be and he’s not naïve even if he doesn’t know his own last name. All of his nights will not be as good as this one. He thinks he should save that beer for one of those nights.

**IV**

Will has a dream about a book with blank pages. It fills up his entire line of sight and he madly flips through page after page of _nothing_ with panic shivering in his bones like the low _ting_ of a cymbal. Stuck on a loop is an unfamiliar voice saying, _My God, look at his eyelashes…_

Will starts awake when someone touches his shoulder and says, “Wake up, Will.”

He pops his eyes open and stares back into the fathomless black of Spark’s dark eyes. He’s lying in the creaky motel room bed that he shared with Spark last night; Spark who has been assigned Will’s caretaker and seems to’ve taken on the task without much worry. Spark, he thinks as he stares at him, is the luckiest break he’s had since realizing he had zilch, not even memories.

“Hello,” Will says as he sits up. He winces and sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth. He’s feeling the full brunt of what his body endured last night. Before bed, Spark had told him to sleep on his stomach and he had, which had made it better. 

He looks down at the stained carpet between his feet, listens to the rattling hum of the air conditioner that’s spitting frigid air into the room. This is the very definition of “roach motel” and it seems to wear the badge with honor, right down to its sign that proudly declares it rents rooms by the hour, day or week. Spark rents on a weekly basis—this is his home. Will shifts his weight on his hips then turns to lay out on his belly again, stretching horizontally across the bed. He ignores Spark’s low, not unkind, laugh.

“So, I’m thinking we should eat somethin’ then go get you some clothes,” Spark says as he goes to sit in one of the crappy chairs that goes with the scarred, unstable little table in the room. He looks at Will lying there with his chin propped on his crossed arms and shakes his head. “Moving around’ll help some, too. You won’t think so at first, but trust me.”

“I have clothes,” Will says. “No, I don’t believe you about moving around. I feel like… like I’ve been raped.”

Spark sits back with a nod and lights a cigarette. There’s a thin beam of late afternoon sunlight coming through the crack in the curtains, licking along his deep copper-gold skin. Will watches it dance along the fine hairs of his arms like tiny lights. “You’ve got _those_ clothes, man, which ain’t much of nothin’. ‘Sides, you need something more… _work appropriate_ ,” Spark says. His smile is a sickle blade slicing across his face.

He doesn’t say anything about Will feeling raped, but he does lean across the narrow space between the bed and chair to give his shoulder a quick squeeze. _I know,_ is what it says and that’s good enough for Will.

Will’s mind is full of blank pages. _My God, look at his eyelashes…_ He knows that voice now and finds it odd that is what bugged him the _most_ about last night—that stranger’s thumb stroking his eyelashes. He hates Mr. Business, but he loathes that uninvited caress as much, if not more.

“Get up now, Will,” Spark says.

He’s gentle about it, but his voice tells Will it’s time to go. It’s getting late and they’re going to have to work soon. He doesn’t know if he can do that a second time. As he carefully gets up from the bed, he also knows that’s a lie. He will do it because he has to do it. If he doesn’t then he will die frozen to a sidewalk come winter. At least this way, he has a place to sleep and enough money to feed himself for now.

As he puts on his shoes, Will thinks to tell Spark, “I’ll be able to help with the rent by the end of the week probably.”

“Cool,” Spark says. He’s counting his money and separating some change out of the mess on the wobbly table. “Today, I’ll teach you about the bus and show you where the Goodwill is.”

Will nods and slips on his coat. He’s ready to go now, he’s hungry and he supposes he does need some clothes. A moment later, Spark gives him some loose change for his bus fare then motions for him to come on. Will follows along behind him, Spark’s longer legs eating up the concrete. He has a loping walk that only lends more to his wolfish appearance. Will does not lope, in fact he kind of limps and about a block in, Spark stops and walks back to him.

“Sorry, dude,” he says when he reaches Will. “I didn’t think about your sore ass.”

“God,” Will says, making a face at the phrasing.

Spark just laughs. His teeth are very white. Will wonders how long they will stay that way; how long either of them will even have _all_ of their teeth. It’s not like their profession comes with a dental plan. He chews over the fact he just thought of whoring himself out as a _profession_ and realizes he doesn’t like that very much. He has a feeling he should be doing something different, it niggles in the back of his mind, way down deep, but he doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s another drawback to him applying for a respectable job: He has no references. He has no résumé. He has no idea what he is _qualified_ to do or if he’s qualified to do anything at all.

Will shakes his head and when Spark nudges him and points at the door to a diner he just nearly walked past, Will stops then simply stands there. “They won’t bring us the food out here,” Spark says. He snags Will’s coat sleeve in his fingers and tugs him along.

“No curbside service?” Will asks.

“Nope, that’s our job,” Spark says.

Will clears his throat and laughs once, a soft, cracked sound. “Yeah,” he says.

He marvels at how _okay_ with being a prostitute Spark is. He wonders if, in time, he will be the same. The theory is that things get easier with repetition and eventually stop mattering, at least on a large scale. Things are what they are and nothing more. Will wonders how he knows that. It feels like an opinion, but when did he form it? All of the questions with no answers are enough to drive him mad if he thinks about them too long.

They find an empty booth near the back of the diner and order coffee. Will breathes in the scents of old grease, eggs, bacon, hamburgers. He listens to the low murmur of conversation from the handful of other patrons. He thinks he wants a hamburger as well. He’s got enough money for one. It’s right there in his pocket beneath all the condoms.

“Where are you from?” he asks Spark after they’ve ordered. Will splurged and got a bacon cheeseburger. He’s looking forward to it. Spark’s having pancakes and scrambled eggs.

“Not here,” Spark says. He flips his lighter in his fingers, tapping the end lightly on the tabletop once with every rotation. “Where are _you_ from?”

“I have no idea,” Will says. He thinks sometimes Spark is testing him, trying to catch him in a lie. If this was a lie, Will thinks it would be about the biggest lie anyone has ever told—remembering nothing of _themselves_ but their own name.

“Montana,” Spark finally allows. “I ran away when I was fifteen.”

“Why?” Will asks.

“Why not?” Spark asks back.

He’s dodging Will now and Will leaves it alone. He stares at Spark and imagines him young and skinny, probably _too_ skinny, packing a bag. It was the bag he carried his school books in, Will would bet on it. Those he would’ve left scattered on his bedroom floor in a little avalanche pile. He dumped the bag and stuffed some clothes into it. He wouldn’t have had much money, but he’d have needed some. He probably took it from his parents. That was Spark’s design.

Will can see the _how_ , but he does not know the _why_. Will thinks he isn’t the only puzzle here now. Somehow, it makes his footing seem more even.

The waitress refills their coffee and Will thinks of another question after she’s walked away. These are things he feels like he ought to know, although why he feels this way is beyond him. “Are we… I mean, does Mack… um… _pimp_ out other guys?”

Spark snorts laughter and stirs sugar into his coffee. He glances up at Will through his eyelashes and shakes his head. “Mack prefers to think of himself as our _manager_. Don’t you ever slip up and call him a pimp, he’ll kick the shit out of you for that,” Spark says. “We’re not the only ones under Mack’s _management_ , there’s three more, but I don’t like ‘em much. One’s a little twink from up in Maine somewhere. Barely legal and all that, the pervs love him. I think he’s shithead, but the fuck ever. Another of us was—get this shit—an Army Ranger. He couldn’t find work after his enlistment ended and now he’s taking another one for his country. I don’t know nothin’ about the other one aside from he fits what Mack likes in his guys.”

“Mack’s design,” Will says.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Will says. He shakes his head. He wishes he knew where the hell he’d gotten _that_ from. “I just meant he has a type, right?”

“Yeah,” Spark says. “He’s got a type and a good eye. Mack was a hustler back in the day.”

“I know,” Will says. Why or how he knew that the night before is yet another mystery, but he’s discovered he has an uncanny knack for reading people if he’s around them long enough.

“Now you do, yeah,” Spark says.

Will doesn’t argue with him about it. They lapse into silence again and when they bring their food, conversation remains on hold until they’ve eaten. They decide on having one more cup of coffee before they pay up and leave for the Goodwill.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The bus smells a lot like the hallway of Mack’s apartment building did except there’s an underlying scent of stale vomit and strong disinfectant. There’s also a lot more cheap perfume and cologne jockeying to be the dominant odor. Will’s head is aching dully after just a few blocks, but he sits quietly and looks around, glad Spark’s sitting on the outside. He likes being sandwiched in by the window, it makes him feel safer.

There is a crazy man talking about Jesus wearing cowboy boots and driving a star-car. The man is very excitable, hands waving and a huge smile on his face. He is obviously insane, but Will thinks he at least looks _happy_ and that’s not something most people can claim to be while still being honest.

Most people shy away from the man and leave him standing at the back of the bus, chattering away to no one in particular. Will listens to him, fascinated with the things that come out of his mouth. He wonders if the man is schizophrenic, especially when he starts talking about how the government genetically engineered him and his twin, Eliza Dushku, to be psychic spies.

Beside him, Spark rolls his eyes and says, “I noticed somethin’ about the crazies, ya know. Either they talk about the government bein’ up to no good or they talk about Jesus. This whacked out motherfucker’s goin’ on about both.”

“Maybe he’s really dedicated,” Will says.

Down the aisle, the man is talking about fortune cookies and how there are tracking devices hidden in them. _We are all full of tracking devices!_

“Damn,” Spark says with a faint smile.

Will thinks the man is interesting and he finds himself identifying with him. Not with the delusional nonsense spilling out of his mouth, but with his insanity. Will feels insane himself, so on that front, he gets where the man on the bus is coming from. Unfortunately, Will isn’t as happy about the fact as his bus compatriot appears to be. Something in the back of his mind whispers that it isn’t _true_ happiness, the man is manic and that causes wild and extreme moods. Maybe later, he will be crying and despondent over how there are just too many flavors of ice cream. The government may or may not be responsible for that, too.

Will is grinning to himself when the bus stops and Spark jostles him lightly. “This is where we get off,” he says.

Will nods and follows him off the bus. As they exit, the man at the rear has moved back to Jesus. He’s talking—quite irately now—about how _Jesus_ didn’t have to take _his_ medication. Will smirks at that and figures someone must’ve asked him about it, someone Will didn’t notice or hear. Maybe his twin sister asked him psychically.

They walk about two blocks down the street, take a right and go another two blocks to get to the Goodwill. It’s a large building and there’s all manner of crap inside to peruse. Some of it is in excellent condition, some of it has weird stains and even stranger smells. There is a chair that looks like it has bloodstains on each of the arms. Will pictures someone cutting their wrists and kicking back to watch David Letterman’s monologue one last time before the curtains came down for good. He stares at the chair until Spark drags him away, muttering about how Will is a space cadet. He wonders aloud if Will would wander into traffic if left unattended for too long.

“I think you may got brain damage, dude,” Spark says.

“I don’t feel brain damaged,” Will says. He feels the sleeve of what’s left of a leisure suit—the coat—and wonders how anyone could’ve ever thought that shade of green was actually a good idea. It looks like chartreuse and puce had a baby.

“I don’t mean like you got stupid-makin’ brain damage,” Spark says as he rifles through a rack of clothes. “I mean like you got crazy-makin’ or spacey-makin’ brain damage.”

Will smiles and takes a navy blue t-shirt when Spark hands it to him. “Is there such a thing as “spacey-makin’” brain damage?”

“I don’t know, but if there is, then you got it,” Spark says. “C’mon, let’s go find you some pants.”

“We came all this way for a shirt and pants?” Will says.

“Yeah, we did,” Spark says. “After you make some more money tonight, we’ll come back tomorrow and get you another coupla shirts and pants. You can’t buy all this shit at once, else you’ll go broke.”

“It’s the Goodwill,” Will says. “How much could it possibly cost? They have bloodstained furniture, for God’s sake.”

“It don’t cost _that_ much, but you don’t make that much money either,” Spark says. “You gotta be what they call _frugal_ about this stuff. ‘Sides, you gotta get a toothbrush and shit, too. You can’t keep usin’ mine. I mean, I don’t mind helpin’ you out, but I ain’t no charity either.” Spark cocks his head and then snorts. “And yeah, that fuckin’ chair man… I don’t think they supposed to sell that kinda shit. Thing’s been here for months now.”

Will nods because that makes sense. If he bought all he may need in one go then he’d be broke and wouldn’t be able to buy any coffee tonight or another pack of gum. Or the aforementioned toothbrush because last night, that was kind of weird, but he’d been desperate to get all the bad tastes out of his mouth. He’s going to need shampoo and deodorant, too. He’s going to have to help out with food and rent. Spark’s idea makes more and more sense the longer he thinks about it.

“Hey, what size pants you wear anyway?” Spark asks him.

“Uh…” Will thinks about it and then he shrugs. He can’t even remember that much. “I have no idea,” he says helplessly.

“Turn around,” Spark says. “Lemme check your tags.”

“Here?” Will says.

Spark gives him a flat, patient look. “Will, you’s suckin’ cock in an alley last night and now you don’t want me lookin’ at the _tag_ on your pants? You can’t be serious.”

Will wrinkles his nose. “I can be serious,” he says for lack of anything better to say, but he turns around anyway.

Spark lifts up his shirt and coat then tugs out the waist of his jeans to grab the tag. “You got a bruise on your hip,” he says. “That last trick do that?”

“Yeah,” Will says. He shivers at the recollection of Mr. Business.

He did something to him other than leave a bruise. He fucked with his head, too and that’s worse than any bruise. He can’t believe he said he’d see him again. Then he also thinks about the hundred dollar bill he earned and remembers _why_. He doesn’t know much of anything about himself—read: nothing—but he’s still kind of stunned at how quickly he’s started putting price tags on everything to do with his body.

He’s watching Spark dig through the jeans and really hoping he doesn’t decide Will needs the pair with the hole in the upper thigh. The jeans are black, but the hole looks like it may’ve been made by a knife. He thinks about the blood trapped in all the denim fibers, waiting to scrape against his skin.

“We should save up and buy the bloody chair,” Will says. It’s just occurred to him that it’s kind of sad no one wants to own the thing. Someone obviously loved it well enough they chose to die in it. It must be a very special chair. It’s probably incredibly comfortable.

“See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Spark says as he turns to point at Will. Will feels his eyebrows lift in question. “ _Brain damage_.”

“It’s not— It’s just that I was thinking that it looks comfortable and probably is,” Will says. He feels obligated to try and explain his reasons for wanting the thing and that makes him feel awkward. He doesn’t think he’s any good at this sort of thing, not really, not when it comes to stuff like bloodstained chairs. “Someone loved that chair. They chose to die in it. It’s _special_.”

“And you’re fuckin’ twisted,” Spark says. “How the hell’re we supposed to get that on the bus?”

“I dunno,” Will says. “Maybe we could have it delivered?”

“Goodwill don’t deliver furniture,” Spark points out. He takes a pair of jeans off the rack, inspects them and then shoves them back.

“Maybe we could walk it back,” Will says.

Spark stares at him for a second then he laughs. Will jumps when he reaches out and pats his cheek. “Sure thing, man,” he says.

Will watches him and relaxes—Spark’s not making fun of him. He thinks Will’s a freak, but it doesn’t bother him in the least. Will knows he’s a freak, he feels it like an instinct. He also can’t help the relief he finds in knowing that Spark seems to like him despite that fact. Hell, he may even like Will, in part _because_ of it. He feels the strangest urge to thank him, but bites it back.

When Spark finally hands him a pair of jeans with worn places along the outer seams and speckles of bleach spotting on them, Will just takes them. A blue t-shirt and a pair of bleach-spotted, faded jeans and his wardrobe is on its way, he supposes. He dreads the night, but he’s almost glad for this little interlude with Spark. It makes him feel like a normal person doing normal things. He doesn’t feel lost or like an alien. He doesn’t feel like a whore. It’s nice.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Back at the motel, Will finally tries on his new clothes and when he comes out of the bathroom for Spark to check him over, he plucks at the front of his shirt. “It’s too small,” he says. “It’s tight.”

“Then it’s just the right size,” Spark says. “You can’t float around in your clothes and expect tricks to pick you up. You’re doin’ good—real good—because your face sells, that deer-in-the-headlights look you’ve got going on works. It’ll work even better though if you wear the right shit to show off the merch.”

“Merch? You mean merchandise, right?” Will says. It reminds him all over again that he is now a commodity. He is an object. He _chose_ this because he went down the hall when he should’ve ran. 

“Well done, genius,” Spark says. 

Will scowls at him for that and Spark just grins and lights a cigarette. 

“My body is merchandise,” Will says under his breath as he turns to go back into the bathroom to try on the pants.

They, too, are tight and hug his crotch; they cling to his ass. He feels utterly exposed even though he’s fully dressed and nothing is hanging out. _Everything_ is on display though and he is hyperaware of that as he walks out again.

“Perfect,” Spark says. His eyes flick over Will’s body from head to toe. He’s smiling again, but this time to himself. When he meets Will’s eyes again, his smile changes—it’s for Will this time. “You’re gonna do alright, man. Alright?”

“Alright,” Will says. “Can I still wear my coat?”

“Yeah, don’t want you getting sick or nothin’,” Spark says. “Just don’t button it.”

“Okay,” Will says.

He sits down on the foot of the bed and shifts around a bit uncomfortably at the way the jeans seem to squeeze his thighs, mold against his crotch. It’s not a lot of fun bending his knees either. Denim does stretch though and Will figures after a while, they’ll give enough that he can at least kneel without feeling like his knees are going to pop through the fabric.

Spark is quiet for a long time, maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. Will tunes out and loses time as he listens to the people in the room next to theirs fighting about how, _You smoked the last of it, you fuckin’ stealin’ piece of shit!_ A door slams and he hears, _That was mine, you cunt!_ That is followed by the sound of glass breaking and, _Liar!_

“We have such nice neighbors,” Will muses.

Spark snorts. “They been here about a month now. They’ll be gone soon enough. Either they gonna OD or they gonna get busted. Fuckin’ crack heads don’t last long, no way you look at it.”

“Do you know a lot of crack heads?”

“You live around here long enough, you get acquainted with a few,” Spark says. “You don’t get to _know_ them though since they’re so fuckin’… I don’t even know _what_. Crazy, I guess.”

“Ah,” Will says. He doesn’t really want to meet any crack heads. He probably will though if Spark is to be believed.

“Hey, you still wearin’ your panties?” Spark asks.

“Boxers,” Will says and only when Spark coughs a laugh does he realize he was fucking with him. Will wonders if his sense of humor has always been so lacking. Then again, he’s got a lot of other shit to worry about besides getting a joke.

“So, yes,” Spark says.

“Yes,” Will says. He’d rather not be, but they’re the only ones he’s got and Spark told him they don’t do laundry until Sunday. The idea is disgusting to him, but he doesn’t want to go totally bare.

Then Spark says, “Lose ‘em, you wear underwear, that’s just one more layer in the way.”

At the look on Will’s face, Spark shakes his head. “Maybe you don’t like it, but you ain’t gotta like it to do it. You get used to that, too, just like everything else. After a while, it’ll feel weird to wear them.”

Will only sighs, gets up and goes into the bathroom again to take off his pants so he can shuck his underwear. That one more layer in the way was also one more barrier between him and the tricks. It gave him that extra two seconds that now seem so precious as he steps out of his underwear and tosses them in the corner.

Spark’s standing up and putting on his coat when Will emerges again. He’s frowning, but Spark gives his shoulder another squeeze then says, “You ready?”

“Not really,” Will says.

He almost flinches from the tired sadness in Spark’s eyes. It’s not for himself, it’s for Will. There’s an apology there as well and Will doesn’t miss it. He’s not mad at Spark for taking him to Mack; he knows that Spark was genuinely trying to help. He saw Will, remembered what Mack had said and saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. He’s regretting it now and Will doesn’t miss that either. He wants to tell Spark it’s okay, that _he_ will be okay. He wants to tell him that, regardless of where he’s ended up, he’s glad it’s not sleeping behind a dumpster or in a shelter. Despite everything, Will is stupidly grateful. He’s not glad to be prostituting himself, but he is glad to’ve met Spark. To’ve met someone who is nice to him. Someone who doesn’t mind he’s a freak.

But then Spark turns to go to the door and the window closes. “Close enough for me,” he says. “C’mon, Will, we gotta work.”

“Yeah,” Will says and follows him out into the purple light of dusk.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next couple of weeks become something of a routine and Will does find himself adjusting. For one thing, he gets better about being alone and doesn’t hide in the shadows like he did his second and third nights. He lost his nerve when Spark was with a trick and he was alone under the—their—streetlight. His earlier moxie from the first night seemingly disappeared into the ether and Will let the shadows have him until Spark returned. By his fourth night though, Will mustered his resolve once more and didn’t lose it again. He promised to help with the rent and he can’t do that if he doesn’t work.

He still dreams of a book with nothing but blank pages. Sometimes he wakes Spark up. He starts out muttering, but the words rise to a panicked yell as he frantically searches the white pages. “Where are the words? Where are the words? _Where are the words?!_ ”

Spark smoothes his hair back from his sweaty face and gently tells him to shut the hell up. Will takes to sleeping curled up against him and Spark just rests his hand on the back of his neck.

“You are fucked up, Will No Name,” he tells him one night and Will almost cries because it’s _so true_.

Spark tells him he’s fucked up at least a couple of times a week now, it’s become something of a joke between them. In the early morning hours as Chicago awakes and they seek rest, it feels like a knife in Will’s spine. Spark shushes him when his shoulders give a threatening shake.

“I’m sorry, I take it back. You know I don’t mean it.” Will makes a low, miserable sound in the back of his throat and Spark wraps an arm around him, drawing him closer while still shushing him. “Now, none of that, man. None of that. Don’t waste ‘em on this shit.”

So, Will shushes and falls back into an uneasy sleep while Spark pets his hair.

They never talk about these things the next day, but Spark always keeps an eye on him unless he has to go with a john.

**V**

One night near the end of the month, they go to a party at Mack’s place and Will meets the other guys. One of them is new—the one Spark hadn’t met before—but not as new as Will. He’s been doing this for a couple of years, but in another part of the city. Mack stole him away from his old pimp— _manager_ , Will reminds himself.

He smokes some of a joint that’s passed around and lets Spark give him a shotgun. Their lips almost touch they’re so close and Will stares into Spark’s black eyes as he inhales the thickly scented smoke he’s exhaling. He finds himself wondering what would happen if they kissed, but then there’s a tickle in his chest and he’s coughing in huge, staccato bursts. Everyone else laughs and before long, Will is laughing right along with them.

Will meets the twink from Maine, a whip-thin blonde with a heart shaped, almost angelic, face. He introduces himself to Will as Stevie and that’s weird to Will—most guys his age would be Steve or Steven, not Stevie. Maybe it’s just a thing, Will thinks. Half an hour later, he’s with Spark in the “I don’t like Stevie” department because he talks too much about things he doesn’t really know anything about. Will gets a round of strange looks when he tells Stevie he’s a pseudo-intellectual. The fact that Stevie doesn’t know what that means only proves his point. Will says something that draws a round of laughter to chase the strange looks from everyone’s faces. It makes him smile and Stevie looks like he may pop something he’s so mad.

Later that night, Spark gets into a shoving match with Stevie. Will sits on the couch, tilted to the side and in danger of toppling over as he watches it escalate. Will is rooting for Spark.

When Stevie lands on his ass on the dirty carpet, Will claps and Spark gives him a quick, fierce grin before going to get another beer. No one helps Stevie up. They aren’t that kind of people—if you fall down, you pick yourself up or else you lay there. Accepting help is a sign of weakness and if you stay down then you just get stepped over. Will learned that lesson very quickly, although he thinks Spark would help him up if he fell.

Not long before they leave for the night, Will sucks Mack off in front of everyone. His head is spinning with pot, beer and some kind of pill the ex-Ranger, David, passed around. He’s so fucked up, he doesn’t even mind that much. When everyone, save Spark, _applauds_ after it’s over, Will stands up with a grin. Then he staggers to the left and bumps into one of the guys, the one from the other side of town. When he feels his hand on his ass, Will jumps and looks at him with bloodshot, startled eyes.

“You wanna?” the guy asks.

Will blinks at him, trying to remember his name. It’s something easy, something made up, but he can’t quite get it. “Wanna what?”

Before the guy can answer him, Spark tugs him away. “No, he don’t wanna, Angel,” he says.

“I didn’t ask _you_ ,” Angel says.

“No, but I am _tellin’_ you,” Spark says. “Leave him the fuck alone.”

Angel holds his hands up and backs away with a mocking smile. “Calm down, big chief.”

“Don’t say that stupid shit to me,” Spark says. “I’ll scalp your stupid ass.”

“Who’s scalping… Wait. _What?_ ” Will asks. He’s slumped in Spark’s arms, back leaning heavily against his chest. “Leave hair alone,” he says. Then he laughs and laughs and laughs and—

The next thing he knows, they’re out on the sidewalk and Spark is patting his cheek on the steps leading into the main building. Will doesn’t know how they got from there to here. “I think I’m forgetting again,” he says. His heart is beating too fast just at the thought. Even with the drugs and liquor, it’s downright _racing_ , trying to catch up with its echo that’s suddenly ringing in Will’s ears.

“You’re not,” Spark says. He sits back on his heels and looks into Will’s face. “You passed out right there in the middle of the living room and Mack helped me carry you out ‘cause I wasn’t gonna leave you in there. You’re fuckin’ wasted, man.”

“I kinda _like_ it though, being wasted. It’s… hmm… Quieter, yeah” Will says with a grin as his heart slows back down. Then he frowns. “I can’t believe I… with Mack though… that was…”

Spark nods and then shakes his head. His long black hair whips around his face. It’s better lit here out front of Mack’s building and Will is fascinated to see how it flashes with a deep indigo sheen in the brighter light. He’s never noticed that before.

“Can I touch your hair?” Will asks. He leans back then rebalances himself and struggles forward again. 

Spark eyes him for a second and then shrugs. “What the hell? Sure,” he says and leans forward with his head down. Some of his hair falls across Will’s knees in inky loops and whorls. The rest disappears down into the shadows puddled between them.

“Silky,” Will says. His voice is almost wondering as he lets Spark’s hair slide through his fingers like black water. “Wow. I like it.”

Spark laughs so hard his shoulders shake and Will grins, wondering what’s so funny. “I repeat: You’re fuckin’ _wasted_ ,” Spark says from beneath the curtain of his hair.

He lets Will pet him a little bit longer and then sits back. Standing, he holds his hands down to Will and wiggles his fingers at him. “C’mon, time to go home,” Spark says.

Will takes his hands and lets Spark pull him up and laughs when he falls into him. He breathes in the booze and pot smoke smell of him, the underlying scent of tobacco and finds he likes it. “I knew… knew you’d help me up if I fell down,” Will says.

“What’re you goin’ on about now, Will?”

“Nothing,” Will says. “I was just thinking earlier is all.”

“And it’s all… whatchacallit… relative, right?”

“We’re not related,” Will says. Then he stops and looks up at Spark. He squints to bring his face into focus. “Are we?” He wonders if he forgot that, too, but then if that’s the case, he doesn’t know why Spark would lie to him about it.

Spark only laughs again and turns Will so he’s facing the right direction. Will tolerates the gentle manhandling with amicable placidness. “No, Will No Name, we’re not related,” Spark says.

“Oh, okay,” Will says. Then they’re moving and Spark’s got a hand on his back to guide him when he stumbles too far towards the curb. “That’d be weird, huh?”

“It’d be impossible,” Spark says. “I’m all Blackfoot and you’re all white dude.”

“Why are your feet black?” Will asks.

“No, you idiot, that’s my _tribe_ ,” Spark says.

“Ah,” Will says. He thinks about that a second and nods. “Got it.”

“You sure?” Spark asks. He sounds amused.

“About that at least,” Will says. “Not about much else though. I shouldn’t’ve done that with Mack. _Why_ did I do that? Why did _he_ make me do that?”

“You did it ‘cause you’re outta your head bombed and Mack’s your _manager_ ,” Spark says. “He made you do it ‘cause he can and ‘cause the new ain’t wore offa you yet. He’ll stop though, I promise.”

“Good,” Will says with another nod. “I don’t like doing that with him. With _any_ of them, but especially with him because he… he should _know better_.”

“Why’s that?” Spark asks. He steers Will away from a chain link fence and when Will overcorrects, heading for the curb this time, he carefully maneuvers him back from there as well.

“He just should,” Will says. “He was like us, so he oughtta _know_ how… how…”

“Fucked up that is?” Spark supplies.

“Yes! Exactly!” Will grins and turns to smile at Spark. He almost falls again.

“Careful, concrete’s hard, you don’t wanna be kissin’ that,” Spark says as he catches Will’s shoulders and turns him around again to keep him moving.

“Ick,” Will says. He tips his head to the side, which throws his balance off again and Spark mutters a curse as he grabs him. Will carries on, mostly oblivious. “Did you know that I don’t even remember what it’s like to be kissed or to kiss somebody? Isn’t that weird?”

“ _You_ are weird,” Spark says as he rests both hands on Will’s waist to better steer him. “Ain’t much you say or do don’t surprise me by this point. ‘Specially when it comes to shit you _don’t_ remember.”

“It’s fucked up, yep,” Will agrees. “I wonder what it’s like though.” He makes an unhappy scoffing sound. “I know what _everything_ else is like, but not that. I don’t want to kiss the tricks though, but that’s okay because none of them try to do it anyway.”

“Because kissing’s somethin’ you do with people you give a damn about,” Spark says. “You’re a warm body with a coupla holes they need for a few minutes. There’s a big damned difference.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Will asks.

“No,” Spark says. “I know better than to expect anything else by now.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Will asks.

“Since I left home damn near it. I turned my first trick in a Wisconsin bus station bathroom,” Spark says. “It was all downhill and a one more state from there.”

“That’s… What is that?” Will asks.

His heart feels heavy. He’s sad about Spark in a bathroom, touching what was probably some dirty old man. He doesn’t like the picture of his too skinny young body kneeling on a sticky tile floor with all of his blue-black hair falling around him like a broken dream. All of Spark’s design is sadness turning to jaded bitterness. That will turn him to dust scattered across a potter’s field one day, probably sooner rather than later. Will’s throat tickles with sorrow and his eyes burn with it.

“Stop it, Will,” Spark says. He halts him on the corner. Just up the way their street light glows in the darkness. Will blinks at it and watches fragments of light burst into prisms made from the wetness in his eyes.

“Your design is _fucked up_ ,” Will says as he swipes at his face.

“Everybody’s design is _fucked up_ ,” Spark says as he steps around to face Will. He blots his face with the frayed sleeves of his over shirt. “Don’t cry for me, you asshole. I did enough of that for myself a long time ago. You don’t get to do it, too.”

“I can’t… it’s just… _I can see it_ ,” Will says.

“You see somethin’, that’s for damn sure,” Spark says. He doesn’t sound mad at Will for this as he wipes his wet face and Will’s glad for that much at least. “What the hell’s this design shit you’re always goin’ on about anyway?”

“It’s how the—it’s how…” Will trails off and shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just how I see things. It’s like… I watch it happening. I watch it being _designed_.”

“That’s… I don’t know what that is,” Spark says. “Not only are you fucked up ‘cause you can’t remember nothin’, you’re also a special type of headcase.”

“Thanks,” Will says. “I feel real special.”

“You oughtta,” Spark says, studying him. “People like you… even if you can’t remember _you_ … you’ve got somethin’.”

“A bad case of crazy brains, sure,” Will says.

Spark grins at him and gives his face one last swipe with his shirt sleeve. “It’ll do for now,” he agrees.

“Uh-huh,” Will says. “I… Can I tell you something?” Spark nods. “I don’t _know_ , but I think I was like this even before I forgot. I can feel that.”

Spark nods. “Makes sense. There’s that sayin’, goes somethin’ like, _wherever you go, there you are_. You can run away from your life and all the shit in it, but you’re stuck with _yourself_ , I think is what that means.”

“Stuck,” Will says with a sigh and a nod.

“You are here, Will No Name,” Spark agrees.

“That’s no fun,” Will says.

“Not much is,” Spark tells him.

Will watches Spark for a minute, how the shadows fall into the hollows made by the light-stroked angles of his face. He looks like he was _carved_ by the most talented of hands, not created of flesh and blood. He’s smart, too, uneducated maybe, but so far from being a _moron_ that Will wonders about all he could’ve been. He could’ve at least been more than this, Will thinks. No, Will _knows_. He could’ve been loved. He _should’ve_ been loved. Spark deserves that.

Will lurches forward and kisses him without much thought past that. Spark makes a surprised sound and then pulls away to look at him. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Um… Kissing you?” Will asks.

“Yeah, but why?”

“Because I… because someone… _you_ ,” Will huffs and tries to stuff his hands in his pockets. He misses and his hands zip down his outer thighs. “I just… I wanted to…”

“Shut up, Will.” Spark smirks at him, the left corner of his mouth quirking up and Will likes that look on his face. It seems like it was made for smirking. “You suck at this shit.”

He takes Will’s face in his hands and kisses him again, slow-slow, until Will catches on and follows him. There’s an aching, hollow sense of familiarity to the kiss—he’s done this before, his body remembers even if his mind doesn’t. He leans into Spark and shivers at the way his tongue stud rolls over his tongue. Breath hitching, Will leans even closer, grabbing some of Spark’s hair when he clenches his hand against his shoulder. He can feel Spark’s fingers on his hip and his other hand is on the side of his neck, thumb stroking the pulse that beats there like tiny wings. Will can still feel his warm palms on his cheeks as he pulled him forward.

When they break apart, Spark pushes Will’s hair back to look in his eyes. “That’s the last time, got it? It’s _gotta_ be the last time,” Spark says. There is regret in his eyes, but Will doubts it’s half as much regret as what’s eating him up inside. “We can’t do this, man. It’d get complicated then it’d get messy and wouldn’t nobody win shit but a lotta hurt probably. So, no more. Understand?”

“But…” Will says. He frowns and touches his face where Spark’s hand just was. “Why?”

“We’re whores, we fuck other people for a living,” Spark says. “One day, one of us is likely to end up dead or worse. Ain’t no sense and no point in getting tangled up in somethin’ that’s more than bein’ friends.”

Will is and is not surprised to find himself a little heartbroken. Rejection, gentle or otherwise, is a painful ghost rattling its chains in the pit of his belly. He understands though and he hates it. Still, he tries, “Can’t we just—”

“C’mon, Will, it’s time to go home,” Spark says, cutting him off. The conversation is over and Will watches his—perhaps _their_ —chance slip through his hands like smoke.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” Will says when they’re about halfway home.

“I’m not,” Spark says.

He slings an arm around Will’s shoulders and Will leans into him with a sigh. It’ll have to do because that’s all he’s going to get; Spark doesn’t go back on what he says and Will knows it would be a monumentally bad idea anyway. It would be the very definition of “unhealthy relationship”. Even knowing that, Will’s attachment to Spark is stronger now than it was before. He closes his eyes and walks blind, letting Spark lead him for a few yards as he locks the memory of that kiss up somewhere he hopes it will stay safe and unmarred and unforgotten. This hurts now, but in the end, he knows it would only hurt worse.

“Okay,” Will says way too late for Spark to know what he’s talking about.

Spark turns the key to their room in the lock and leads Will inside. “Okay what?”

“Just, okay,” Will says. “I’m sleepy.”

“We’re gettin’ there, hang on,” Spark says.

“That’s all I do,” Will says.

“Don’t get dramatic on me,” Spark says as he sits him down on the side of the bed and stoops to untie Will’s shoes for him. “It’s too late and I’m too tired.”

“I don’t think it’s dramatic,” Will says. He flops back across the bed. “It just feels true. Like it’s always been.”

“Maybe so,” Spark says. “Now turn around and lay right, I gotta sleep there, too.”

“Yeah,” Will says. He struggles around until he’s lying right, although he’s too far down in the bed. He keeps his eyes closed and idly wonders where his pillow’s gone.

Spark laughs from somewhere above him and Will watches tiny lights flare across his mind’s eye. They are red-orange dots of fire in the night of Will’s creeping sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

On the last day of the month, Mr. Business comes back and Will takes half a step back from where he’s standing beside Spark when he sees his car. It’s a silver Jaguar. It has leather interior. It still smelled new when Will was last in it and it probably still does. Mr. Business is the type to take pride in the care and upkeep of his toys.

He wants a room this time and Will tells him where to go—the motel he lives in with Spark. They can get a room there and the manager, Mr. Tran, gives weekly renters a small discount on the fee. Mr. Tran is by far the most cheerful person Will has met while living in this city, in this hole on the fringes of it. He’s nice to the rent boys and thinks he’s doing them a favor with the discount—and by not calling the cops on them. Spark told Will that Mr. Tran’s philosophy on their profession is that a job’s a job and it’s better they do theirs inside, where it’s cleaner and at least superficially safer than doing it in a back alley somewhere. That does not mean Will hasn’t found himself in a few more alleys, however, since most people don’t want an hour or longer. They just want the product of a few minutes work.

The biggest upside to renting at their home-base is that they don’t have to tell the tricks about the discount. So when Mr. Business asks how much it is for an hour, Will quotes him the standard price, goes in and gets the room then pockets what’s left.

Mr. Business isn’t much different than he was before. He came prepared with his own lube and condom. He still has no interest in chit-chat and is brusque to the point of rudeness. Not that Will expects _any_ of them to be friendly, but he is often surprised at how civil they are at least.

Some, on the other hand, are not even as kind as Mr. Business. Wednesday, still hungover and feeling like a skank on top of being a prostitute, Will had a john that kicked him after he’d sucked him off. He’d laughed and got back in his car, leaving Will on the ground while he held his throbbing ribs. He still has no idea why he did it and Spark said that sometimes they just do it because they can, that’s all.

Will is not surprised though when Mr. Business lightly runs his fingers over the bruise on his ribs. He makes a low, humming sound of approval. He likes it, Will can see it in the way his eyes light up and he licks his bottom lip.

“Turn around,” Mr. Business tells him after another minute spent lightly stroking the bruise. He wants to press down, but doesn’t and Will’s glad for that. “You remember what I told you before?”

“Be quiet and be still,” Will says.

His heart is already thudding. He was actually starting to think—hope—that this man wouldn’t come back after all. It’s been days since he saw him and he’d just started to push it out of his mind. Something about this man is unsettling; his patience, his brittle calm… the way his eyes turned to burning ice when Will found the words— _use me_ —that really did it for him.

He’s afraid now that in doing so, in finding those words, he’s endeared himself to Mr. Business in some way. He thinks maybe he’s unlocked a door that would’ve been better left closed. He has the full two hundred dollars extra fee tucked in the pocket of his jeans, which are laying on the floor right inside the door. It’s enough to keep him there, hands bunched in the fabric of the cheap polyester blend bedspread.

“Good,” Mr. Business says.

Then he snaps on his gloves. A second later, he’s twisting slippery fingers inside of Will and Will is telling himself that _this time_ he won’t like it. This time he won’t _beg_.

Pleasure flares up his spine a minute later and Will grits his teeth and tries to think about something else. It doesn’t work because Mr. Business seems to know all the tricks and pushes through them or goes around them or sneaks up on them from the side. This man is fearsomely intelligent and terribly _competent_. By the time he’s got three fingers inside of him, Will is trembling all over and sweat is streaming off his sides in the cold air of the room. He’s once more and trying not to moan and whimper, trying not to fuck himself back on the fingers in him. Mr. Business makes him feel filthy and wanton. He despises it, but he loves the way the pleasure burns through his body.

A strained sound finally escapes his throat despite his best efforts, his body starting to wind clock spring tight as he teeters on the verge of orgasm. Just like he should know by now, even if it is only the second time, Mr. Business takes his fingers away. Will pants and waits though, certain he’s going to start pushing his cock inside of him next. When it doesn’t happen, Will looks over his shoulder at him and finds Mr. Business lazily stroking himself. His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t see Will move and he’s thankful because he forgot to _be still_. He has to be still. He hurts, just like last time, he _hurts_ and now he’s being made to wait. It only makes it hurt worse.

Mr. Business strokes a hand over the curve of Will’s ass and says, “You need to come back down. I don’t want you going off too soon.”

“Please,” Will whispers.

Mr. Business laughs. “Soon enough.”

“Please,” Will whispers again a couple of minutes later.

Mr. Business gives his ass a sharp smack that makes Will rock forward on his elbows. “Hush.”

Will hushes. Will waits. His cock throbs and his breath catches with anxious anticipation. This man keeps him on edge because he thought he knew what he wanted, but now he’s gone and changed the rules on him and he’s _lost_ again.

Will focuses on his breathing to tune out the ache of _want_ in his body. He’s so far into himself that when Mr. Business pushes the head of his cock into him, Will startles and then moans before he can stop himself. Mr. Business grabs his hair and pulls his head back to whisper in his ear, “Mind yourself, _boy_.”

Will nods the best he can and Mr. Business lets go of his hair. He fucks him slowly this time, so slowly that he keeps Will right on the edge. He’ll fuck him hard and deep for a few strokes then he’ll slow back down to shallow thrusts and there’s no pattern Will can find. His body is a livewire of anticipation and pleasure that’s verging on agony.

“Do you want to come?” Mr. Business asks. He sounds calm, save the faintly breathless strain in his voice.

“ _Yes_ ,” Will says. His fingers are bunched in the bedspread, knuckles hurting and white he’s clenched his hands so tightly in the scratchy fabric.

“Say please.”

“Please.” Will tries to think, to suss out what he wants to hear. “Please, make me come.” He swallows back the old familiar bile of self disgust and says, “Use me.”

Those are the words. He’s opening another lock on the door of Mr. Business, but he can’t help it. He’s doing _something_ to him, sowing some kind of seeds. It feels wrong to Will, like he is being _played with_ for some bizarre reason. This isn’t usual, he doesn’t think. People are kinky, he has an understanding of that, but this somehow goes beyond that. Going beyond is also part of Mr. Business’s design.

“Tell me when you’re close to coming,” Mr. Business says. “If you don’t then we’re going to repeat this until you get it right. Understand?”

His hips jerked forward at the words, at _use me_ , but he calmed himself back down. Will can feel the strain of his self control in the way his fingers are flexing and clenching against his hips. He _wants_ to move, but he’s not done yet. He’s moving a little faster now, a little deeper, but it’s still not enough.

Will nods and that’s good enough for Mr. Business. Will’s mouth falls open on a breathless, soundless scream when he starts to fuck him in earnest, no more teasing, no more toying. This is relentless, tireless pounding that sings through Will’s whole body. His stomach muscles clench, release, clench, release as it builds inside of him in waves. The bedsprings scream and Will knows now he can make some noise now, so he does. He cries out over and over, but he remembers what Mr. Business told him. He hangs onto it because he doesn’t want to do this again, not tonight.

When his body is starting to feel like it’s coming apart, his stomach muscles clenched tight in a trembling sheet across his belly and pleasure a snake in him, ready to strike, Will says, “I’m close. Now. I’m gonna co—”

It hits him and he bucks, mouth open again in a wordless, noiseless scream. He twists and writhes when he feels Mr. Business’s fingers digging into the bruise on his ribs. It runs into the stream of his pleasure and together, the two become a river that floods Will because he doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins. It hurts and it feels good and it’s confusing and _oh, God_ he doesn’t want it to stop. He wants it to’ve never happened.

Mr. Business has just sown a seed, Will knows he has, even as he bucks and makes helpless, whimpering sounds in the back of his throat.

A couple of minutes later, he hears, “Yes,” through the fog in his mind and sags with relief. It’s over for now. For this time.

Mr. Business pulls out of him as roughly as before and without his hands on his hips to hold him up, Will collapses on the bed with a soft sound of exhaustion. He lies there for maybe ten minutes before Mr. Business’s voice cuts in with, “Get up, get dressed and get out. I want a shower before the time’s up on this dump.”

Will nods and pushes himself upright. He sits for a second and clumsily tries to push the sweaty curls of his hair out of his face. It doesn’t really work and so he staggers to his feet and fumbles his clothes on, leaning against the door for support. Mr. Business doesn’t even look at him. He’s got his trousers on again and seems lost in thought.

Will ducks out of the room and slips down to his and Spark’s so he can take a shower of his own. It helps jolt him out of the fog he fell into, but as he washes, he tries to work out what happened. He touches the bruise on his ribs and remembers the river it made when it mixed into his pleasure. He tells himself to stop, the money is not worth it and that—that is true. Will has a dangerous curiosity about this though, about what’s going on. He wants to figure out what Mr. Business is up to with him. He wants to know his _complete_ design.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Spark gives him a concerned, curious sidelong glance when he makes it back to the light pole, but he doesn’t say anything. Will doesn’t offer any details or comments. He still hates Mr. Business, but his curiosity has made his bed for him, whether he likes it or not. Will has a tendency to follow things all the way through, regardless of where they may lead. It’s something else he knows instinctually about himself. Once something’s caught his head then _he_ is caught and can’t extricate himself until he’s worked it all out to his satisfaction. That way lies madness or death, he knows and it scares him, but he doesn’t think he can hide from it either. It’s one of those things that’ll get him in the end. If not now with Mr. Business then later with someone else.

“Be careful of that one,” Spark says after a few minutes. “I don’t know what that fucker’s deal is, but he ain’t all right. He’s doin’ somethin’ when he takes you and I don’t just mean doin’ you funny, I don’t think. I don’t know why, but there it is.”

“He is,” Will agrees.

“What is he doin’ to you?” Spark asks. His voice is sharper than it usually is, his black eyes beetle-back bright in the yellow light.

“I don’t know yet,” Will says. “He’s got a design, but I can’t figure it out.”

“Leave that motherfuckin’ shit alone,” Spark says. “I don’t give a damn about his _design_ and neither should you. The fuck, Will?”

“I don’t know that either and that’s part of it—I _have_ to know,” Will says.

“What if he fuckin’ kills you?”

“That’s not part of his design,” Will says. “He wouldn’t do all this just to kill me.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know!” Will yells, his frustration with not knowing _so much_ finally popping out the seams of the carefully constructed box he’s been keeping it in. “I don’t _fucking_ know, Spark! I just do! And I have to know _what_ it is, alright?”

“Fuck no, it’s _not_ alright,” Spark says. He grabs Will by the shoulders and digs his fingers in to hold him there. “You even hear yourself? Even a little fuckin’ bit? This shit is _dangerous_ and you’re runnin’ right at it.”

Will hates that he’s upset Spark—made him mad—something, but he can’t stop now that he’s made up his mind. He can only try to reassure him. He reaches up to touch one of his hands and squeezes his fingers the best he can with them digging into his shoulder.

“I’ll be okay,” he says. “He won’t kill me.”

“He’s gonna do _somethin’_ to you and you know it, too. I don’t need that whacked out _The Shining_ thing you got goin’ on to know _that_ ,” Spark says. He leans close to Will’s face to stare intently into his eyes and slides his hands up to cup the sides of Will’s neck. “Don’t fuck around with that bastard.”

“I’m sorry,” Will says and looks away.

Spark lets him go and steps back to run his hands over his head. “You’re doin’ wrong, man. I am tellin’ you this.”

“I know,” Will says. “I’m sorry and I know and I can’t leave it alone. _I have to figure it out._ ”

“Crazy son of a _bitch_!” Spark yells at him.

Will flinches, but only slightly and then turns to look across the street. “We’ve already established that,” he says. His voice is flat and he’s sorry and Spark’s right, but done’s done and he can’t go back now.

“Will,” Spark says.

He sounds worried, tired, sad and exasperated. It’s a mixed tone of voice that is tantalizingly familiar to Will, but he doesn’t know where, why or how. He just knows he doesn’t like it coming from Spark, but in a way that’s different from the way he _despises_ how it echoes down the empty corridors of his mind. He _resents_ it in the old shapeless, formless, imageless context he knows he’s heard it in before.

With Spark, there is none of that, all that’s there with him is a dull ache of regret that he can’t do the one thing he’s asked of him. Will sighs and lets his shoulders slump as he stares into the murky nightmare darkness across from him. Without thinking, he turns to Spark and hugs him, presses his face into his chest and hangs on. For a second he thinks Spark won’t return the hug, but then he does and Will feels a little better.

“A damned fool, you are, Will No Name,” Spark says into the top of his head before gently disentangling himself from the embrace.

Will smiles humorlessly and shrugs, trying to let it roll off his shoulders where it sits like a pair of ravens. “Why do you call me that?” Will asks him.

“Because you have no name,” Spark says.

“My name is Will,” he says.

“Yeah, but what’s the rest of it?” Spark asks him.

Will stares at him, eyes narrowing a bit. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Spark says. “Will No Name.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I gave you a name, a whole one,” Spark says. “Now you’re not a ghost.”

“Is that part of your—”

“If you ask me if that’s some kind of tribal thing, I will kick you,” Spark says. “If you’re lookin’ for mystic Indian bullshit then you’re lookin’ at the wrong Indian.”

“You mean Native American,” Will says.

Spark tilts his head back and laughs up at the sky so loudly it echoes all the way up and down the street. “No, I mean _Indian_. Indians are the only ones even use the word anymore. I think that’s pretty funny.”

“Isn’t Native American the… uh… correct term?” Will asks.

“Politically correct, yeah,” Spark says. He shakes his head. “If you think about it, Indians and politics ain’t never been real close friends though.”

Will frowns. “I guess you’re right.”

“I _know_ I’m right,” Spark says. “We’re taught what the Battle of Wounded Knee _really_ was.”

“What was it?”

“A goddamned massacre of women, children and old people,” Spark says. He curls his lip.

“Oh, I didn’t—”

“Know? I figured,” Spark says. “It’s not your fault and I ain’t mad at you about it. History’s written by those who win is all.”

“You’re smart,” Will says. He feels like a moron the moment he says it, even though he does mean it; he’s thought it since his second day with Spark. Because sometimes he says things like that and it can’t be missed.

“Not really,” Spark says. “I just ain’t _stupid_ is all.”

“Is there a difference?” Will asks.

“Yeah, there’s a difference and a damn big one at that,” Spark says. “I ain’t stupid, but you’re _smart_.” He tilts his head to the side in thought. “You do some seriously stupid shit though.”

“Fuck you,” Will says. “I still think you’re smart though.”

“Keep talkin’ that way and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me,” Spark says, turning to look at Will. He flutters his eyelashes at him and smiles.

Will feels his stomach clench and then flip. _My God, look at his eyelashes,_ he thinks with only the faintest touch of revulsion now. They didn’t pay enough attention to Spark though and they missed out. He has thick black eyelashes that fringe around his eyes like shredded silk. They even shine faintly in the bad light. He’s got a smile that would make the devil blush and cheekbones that Will could happily cut his hands on.

Then there’s all the rest and yeah, Will’s a little _sweet_ on him. He is wasting his time though and Spark has made that abundantly clear. So, he just breathes through the little ache in his belly then shoves Spark playfully while he’s still batting his lashes at him. Spark laughs as he tips to the side, his long braid of hair swinging like a pendulum through the air.

“Sweet like antifreeze,” Will says as he rocks back on his heels with a grin that’s only half forced.

Spark leans back against the light pole and chuffs out a bit more soft laughter before lighting a cigarette. Will wonders what it would be like to taste the smoke coming out of his mouth, having it exhaled into his lungs, like the marijuana smoke had been. He looks away at that and back into the nightmare darkness across the street.

A little while later, a car pulls up and motions for Spark to come on. He gets in the car and Will watches the taillights disappear into the darkness.

Twenty minutes later Spark comes up the sidewalk with a bloody lip and skinned, bleeding knuckles. “We’re done for the night, c’mon. We can deal with Mack later,” he says. He grabs Will with his other hand and drags him away from the streetlight.

“What happened?” Will asks as he twists out of his grasp to cut in front of Spark and look at him.

“Guy was a fuckin’ limp noodle and thought he was gonna take it out on me, that’s what,” Spark says. He wipes his bloody mouth on his forearm. “Ain’t my fault his dick’s broke. I told him that, too.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Tried to kick the shit outta me, but he got the shit kicked outta him instead,” Spark says. His grin is fierce, the one that makes him look wolfish. He’s got blood on his white-white teeth. Then he tugs at Will’s sleeve to get him moving again.

Will blinks, processes that then asks, “What did you do to him then?”

“Left his ass laying in an alley with a broke nose and what I hope like hell is a fuckin’ concussion,” Spark says.

“What if he calls the police?”

“He ain’t gonna say a fuckin’ thing,” Spark says. “Tricks don’t say nothin’ just like whores don’t say nothin’. You can’t go cryin’ to the cops about shit like this ‘cause they ask a lot of questions. Like, _What were you doing in that neighborhood, Mr. Suburban Soccer Dad?_ and other uncomfortable things like that. The tricks are too embarrassed to talk and we’re just trash, so cops don’t give a shit if we get beat up.”

“We’re not trash,” Will says.

Sometimes he feels like trash and that’s the truth, but underneath that is always the knowledge that he’s also a _human being_. He deserves to be protected or helped if he needs such a thing from the police. He has a right to live and exist just as much as anyone else. He is not a scrap of paper caught in the gutter.

Someone once said that we’re all laying in the gutter though. It’s just some of us are looking at the stars. Will remembers that, but not who said it. If that’s the case then he’s looking at the same stars everyone else is looking at.

“You with me?” Spark asks.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m here,” Will says. “I was just thinking about the stars in the gutter.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Will says. “Let’s get you cleaned up and maybe when we’re done, we can walk down to Nelly’s for breakfast before we go to bed. My treat.”

Spark’s still thinking about stars in the gutter, but he nods. “We can do that, if you want to. I could eat for sure.”

Will nods and they walk on. The night teems with shadows all around them and Will sees them, but he doesn’t mind them now.


	2. June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the imagery in this chapter may be particularly disturbing and/or upsetting for some readers. Please proceed with caution.

_“Ghastly,  
with open eyes, he attends, blind.  
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;  
thinking.”_

— John Berryman  
“Dream Song 29”

**I**

One day in the second week of Will’s second month in Chicago he slips around and has a talk with Mr. Tran about something. The next day they buy the chair from the Goodwill out of money Will’s been stashing and they do so with Mr. Tran’s blessing. They walk it back to the motel and Spark makes a point to cuss him for it whenever he can catch his breath. It’s steaming hot out and they’re dripping sweat as they go. People they pass part around them and look at them both like they’ve lost their minds. Will doesn’t mind or really even notice because he is so ridiculously pleased with their new chair.

Spark looks like he may like to strangle him by the time they get it in the room. By the time they’re done, the table is shoved into a corner, they’ve put one of the chairs in the closet and the bloodstained recliner is right in front of the window. Will is going to be pushing his luck to get in or out of bed on that side anymore. When they open the door, it just barely misses banging into the chair.

He flops down in the chair and when Spark collapses on top of him, Will laughs and automatically wraps his arms around him. They’re burning up, soaked through with sweat and honestly, they stink. Will loves the way Spark’s wet hair clings to his neck and face where it has come loose from its braid to go flying all over the place.

“I hate you,” Spark says as he wallows up from Will’s lap to go sprawl out in the bed where he huffs and pants.

“I know,” Will says. It’s the most cheerful he’s sounded since he realized he had no idea who or where he was.

He rests his arms along the stained ones of the recliner and closes his eyes, letting the exhaustion wash through him at last. He knows this chair’s design now. The former owner cut their wrists sitting right here where Will’s at. That’s atypical, most people do it in the bathtub and if not there then they do it bed. He doesn’t question how he knows that—he just does, like he knows so many other things. His life as it pertains to _him_ and who he is—was—is what’s been deleted, nothing else. Knowledge gathered during that time before now has stayed behind; glimpses of things learned in a life Will wonders if it maybe wasn’t best for him to forget.

He reaches down and runs his hand along the side of the recliner before finally touching the lever to make it lay back. There’s blood there as well, all down the left side of the chair, although it’s no longer on the lever itself since that much could be cleaned off. Whoever it was must’ve been left-handed to manage to recline the chair after they’d done their sad deed. If they’d been right-handed they’d have cut the tendons in the left hand while slicing for their artery. It makes sense; the lever is on the left after all.

The former owner reclined back, laid their arms on the rests, palms facing upward and probably closed their eyes as they felt their life draining away. They probably didn’t have the television on, now that Will has thought about it. Instead, he thinks they listened to music, a favorite song on repeat to lull them down-down-down. They loved this chair so much that it is the place, the _one place_ , they chose to spend their last minutes on Earth. He only wishes he knew what song it was they listened to.

Will thinks that counts for something, which is why he saved the money to buy it. Spark actually hadn’t seemed that surprised when he told him what he’d done, although he had inquired as to where the _hell_ Will thought they were going to put it. So, Will told him and now it’s his to sit in. This chair that someone loved is his to love now. It’s funny and something he keeps to himself, but the bloodstained chair felt a lot like a stray in need of rescue.

**II**

It’s the beginning of the third week of his second month that Will meets his first role-player. He says that Will is to call him “Daddy” and Will’s name for their hour together is “Brian”. Something about him makes Will’s skin crawl from the very first and when he takes the name Daddy for himself, he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

Will just swallows it back and tells him it’ll be extra. He quotes him the price and the man pays him. He’s shifty, nervous acting and won’t look Will in the eye. In fact, he hardly looks at him at all unless Will pretends to be looking elsewhere. Then it’s as though Daddy feels it is safe to study him—to appraise him—and he does so with a kind of avaricious hunger that’s _wrong_.

Daddy could be anyone, he’s the epitome of white, suburban middle-class male. He’s in his mid-40s, by Will’s guess, with nondescript brown eyes and sandy colored hair that can’t seem to decide if it’s dark blond or light brown. He could be someone’s mailman or school bus driver or local grocer. His features are relatively bland and pleasant to look at because of that blandness.

He has Will undress and climb into bed. He asks him to pull the covers up to his chin and close his eyes, like he is sleeping. Will complies and turns all of this over and over in his mind while, from beneath his slitted eyelids, he watches Daddy lick his lips. He wipes his sweating hands on the sides of his pants then sits down next to Will. He gently shakes him as though he’s waking him.

Will blinks his eyes open slowly and looks up at Daddy. He is smiling now. It’s sick looking.

“Are you Daddy’s good boy?” he asks Will.

Will nods and lets him stroke his hair and run his thumb over his bottom lip. He watches Daddy and feels his skin prickle all over again. This isn’t right at all. Maybe, he reasons, he’s being weird about this because of the name the trick has chosen for himself. It’s abnormal, Will thinks, for a man to be visiting a prostitute and desiring he be called by a paternal moniker. There are all kinds of kinks out there in the world though and phrases such as, _Who’s your daddy?!_ that make Will wonder if he’s taking things out of context.

“Daddy loves you,” he murmurs as he runs his hand down the side of Will’s neck. He takes his shoulder in his nice, normal looking hand and squeezes it. He looks at Will then and smiles at him. There is a fever burning in his eyes. “You’re such a special boy to me, Brian. I want to show you just how much I love you. Can I do that?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Will says. He nearly chokes on the words.

“Oh, you’re such a smart boy, so clever and kind,” Daddy says.

His hand dips beneath the bedspread and strokes over Will’s naked chest, down to his belly. He keeps caressing down-down-down until he’s cupping Will’s cock in his hands. He fondles him lightly, experimentally, touching his balls and cupping them a couple of times as well before moving back to his cock.

“You’re growing up so big!” Daddy says, his voice low and exclamatory. His smile is stretched wider, a rictus and Will waits for his face to split with it.

“Daddy, what are you doing?” Will asks when he resumes lightly fondling his cock. He’s jerking him off with short, soft strokes. Will’s body isn’t responding because there’s too much going on in his head for him to even seek physical enjoyment. He thinks that, given this situation, that is a _very_ good thing.

“I’m making you feel good,” Daddy says. “I’m going to make you feel so good you won’t even believe it. Do you trust me, Brian?”

“Yes, Daddy, of course I trust you,” Will says.

He bites his bottom lip to keep back harsher words. It’s incidental that he does so and the second he sees that sick rictus grin grow even bigger, he realizes his mistake. He wants to tell this man he is _disgusting_ , but he doesn’t. He thinks it’s better that it’s him Daddy is taking this out on than on an actual child. Will can sacrifice a little of his personal comfort if doing so will prevent that.

“Do you mind if I get in bed with you?” Daddy asks. “I want to snuggle you.”

“Sure, Daddy, I like to snuggle,” Will says.

“That’s just great,” Daddy says. “I’m so proud of you, you’re doing so good.”

“Thank you,” Will says. He watches Daddy undress and when he turns around, his cock is huge and angry and red. Will swallows and feels his eyes grow big for a moment. Then he recovers and finds _himself_ again. For just a second, he felt like he really was this boy named Brian.

Daddy climbs into bed beside him and runs his hand down his belly again to stroke his cock some more. His fingers are bolder now and when he reaches for the lube he laid on the pressboard nightstand, Will knows what’s coming next.

“Am I hurting you?” Daddy asks as he works a finger in and out of Will’s ass.

“No,” Will says and then swallows. Why is he doing this to him? He doesn’t ask though, doesn’t say anything because he wants to continue being Daddy’s _good boy_.

He pulls himself out of that mental hole, too, but with greater effort than before. When Daddy kisses his cheek, Will closes his eyes and tries not to whimper with anxiety. _Why is Daddy doing this to him? Daddys aren’t supposed to do these things to their little boys._

He falls back into the mental hole when Daddy pushes his cock inside of him. He moans and kisses Will’s cheek again, he strokes his hair. He says, “Daddy loves you _so much_. I’m going to show you, too, I promise.”

“Ow, Daddy, it hurts,” Will says. His voice sounds small and far away to him. There wasn’t enough prep or lube used here and it _does_ hurt, but more so mentally than physically.

“Shh… shh… my precious boy,” Daddy murmurs. “It’ll feel good in just a minute, you’ll see.”

“But, Daddy—” Will winces and frowns, shifting uncomfortably beneath the heavy weight on him. He doesn’t feel like he can breathe. He wants his pajamas. He wants to run away and never come back again. But he’s supposed to be _good_ , so he stops talking and simply lies there.

Daddy grunts and pants in his ear, his sweat sliding all over Will’s skin. He keeps telling him how good he is and how much he loves him. He strokes Will’s hair back from his face. Will stares at the ceiling over Daddy’s shoulder and sees glow-in-the-dark stars above him instead of stained, sagging acoustic tile. He keeps his hands by his sides and digs his fingers into his superhero sheets. It’s dark, but he knows there is a border of wallpaper around his bedroom with sports equipment on it. His room is dark blue. Daddy is making him dirty and pushing inside of him over and over and over again. Will’s bottom lip trembles with the urge to cry, but he takes a deep breath through his nose and it passes. He tries to climb back out of this hole, but he’s stuck and can only watch it unfold.

Daddy finishes pretty quickly and when he comes, he moans obscenely in Will’s ear then calls him _precious_. He says Will is the most precious thing in this whole wide world to him. He thanks Will for giving him such a special hug.

Will thinks he is going to vomit because he knows Daddy just did something very, _very_ bad. He wants him to go away now. He stays in bed, staring at his glowing stars. He doesn’t even flinch when Daddy kisses his forehead and tells him to sleep tight before creeping out of the room.

Ten minutes later, Will snaps out of it with a start and shudder. His stomach lurches and he leans over the side of the bed to vomit gas station burrito and the sour, acidic remains of three cups of coffee all over the threadbare carpet. He stumbles up from the bed and steps in his own puke, but he doesn’t care—he barely notices—as he runs for the shower.

Once there, he turns on the spray as hot as he can stand then sinks down to his haunches with his head bowed beneath the needle-sting of the water. He shakes and a cracked sob breaks from his throat. It echoes in the close space and Will tries to swallow it back and almost manages before another one breaks free.

He closes his eyes and Daddy’s design reveals itself in slices of light so bright and sharp, Will thinks of a pendulum. That’s never happened to him before and it startles him badly, but once it starts, he can’t make it stop either.

Will is a test run for Daddy, he’s been thinking about this for a long time. Brian is his son and he’s been fighting his unnatural, depraved wants for years. Will probably bears some kind of resemblance—albeit older, of course—to the actual boy. Daddy’s coming close to breaking all of the rules he made for himself years ago when the urges, the twisted fantasies, first started. Will was his first step.

He did no good at all by succumbing for Daddy, he only got lost in the headspace the man created for him. Somewhere out there and soon, Will thinks, a little boy is going to be horribly violated—horribly _betrayed_ —by one of the people he should be able to trust more than anything. Will’s compliance helped seal his fate and he didn’t _see_ it. Now he has damned this boy to God knows how many years of pain, shame and self-loathing. His life may well end in suicide at a young age.

Will pounds his fists down on the cracked enamel floor of the shower stall then he begins to rock himself. He slips back and forth between being himself and hating what he’s just done, to being Brian and feeling scared and alone. He hurts all over because of what has been done to him. He thinks the pain will never end. Daddy said he loved him, but that’s a lie. You’re not supposed to hurt people you love.

The water running cold is what jolts him back to the _now_. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in the shower, but the desk clerk hasn’t called the room or come by to bang on the door, so he’s still got a little time. His “visit” with _Daddy_ , all in all, probably only took twenty minutes. It was one of those things though that really does feel like an eternity. The furtive touching turned to slavering, bestial pawing. Will feels like a bruised piece of scrap meat as he finally rises and turns off the shower.

He dresses, leaves the room and goes to turn in the key. If he keeps his eyes closed for too long, he sees glow-in-the-dark stars dancing there. He goes back to the light pole and Spark without hardly blinking because he’s afraid to.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, only a few hours after he and Spark have laid down for some sleep, Will has a nightmare.

He’s on his back in a bed with Wolverine sheets while Daddy fucks him rough and hard. He begs him to stop, says that it hurts and _Ow, Daddy, why are you doing this? It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…_ He knows he is bleeding and above him, his stars glow on with cheerful ignorance. They spin above him until he feels nauseous with vertigo. They are green and blue and pink and yellow witnesses to this atrocity and they can never tell. Will—no, his name is Brian, Daddy’s Good Boy—will never tell either because he _promised_ he wouldn’t. It hurts so bad.

Why does Daddy’s love feel like it’s splitting him in two? Why is Daddy’s slimy tongue in his mouth? He’s going to choke if the pain in his bottom doesn’t kill him first. Daddy is rough and quick and all he says is, _I love you so much_. He licks the side of Brian’s face and then kisses his ear and then he puts his tongue inside of that same ear. It feels like a slippery, squirmy version of Daddy’s _thing_ inside of him. Then it gets longer and Brian—no, his name is Will, Daddy’s Test Run—feels it as it starts to enter his brain.

He tries to fight, he bucks and squirms and hits with tiny, ineffectual fists. When Daddy’s tongue starts to scramble his brains, he opens his mouth and screams.

“Will! Hey, c’mon, _wake up_!”

Will’s eyes pop open and there is a face above him. A terrifying face made of shadows and fake star-glow. It’s right there with its evil tongue waiting to hurt him and Will screams again, lashes out and catches that nasty-bad face a glancing blow across its jaw.

Rough hands grab his wrists and pin him down as Will screams again. He tries to bite the awful arms that’re holding him still. He bucks and writhes and tries to get away, but he is trapped. His fear makes him sob aloud and he feels hot tears streaming down his face.

“Please, Daddy, don’t,” Will whimpers.

“ _WILL!_ ”

Will flinches from the booming sound of the voice and tosses his head to try and clear his mind. Above him, Spark is holding him down, his dark face pale in the light creeping around the drawn curtains.

“Spark?” he asks. His voice breaks and he starts shaking then in earnest, with relief and the adrenaline that’s rushing through him.

“Yeah, I damn ain’t no _daddy_ ,” Spark says.

It’s only then that Will becomes aware of an incessant pounding that isn’t his heart banging against his ribs. Will must’ve disturbed their crack head neighbors, who are frequently loud and don’t seem to mind disturbing others, but the reverse doesn’t hold true. They’re pounding on the wall so hard it almost sounds like they’re kicking it.

 _Shut up over there!_ Lord Crack Head’s voice cries through the wall.

 _People are tryin’ to get some goddamned motherfuckin’ sleep!_ bellows Lady Crack Head.

Spark watches Will for another second and then lets him go to bang on the wall above their bed. “You shut the fuck up, crack head pieces of shit! Go suck on your glass dick and quit botherin’ people!”

 _Fuck you!_ Lady Crack Head screams right back, but the pounding stops.

Spark grins and smacks the wall again. “Not even if you paid me, you welfare line hag!”

Will is only faintly aware of all of that as he scoots to the end of the bed then sits up with his feet firmly planted on the ugly carpet. He’s still shaking, breathing heavy and streaming with sweat. He pulls his soaked shirt away from his chest then just takes it off to throw it across the room where it lands with a soggy plop. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Daddy and the weight of the man’s design comes down on him again. The feeling of being in some little boy’s head only makes that weight heavier and _he can’t breathe_.

He doesn’t know how or why that happens, how he does this _thing_ where he can be anyone, even if he doesn’t want to be. He can look at them or hear their stories or watch them for a few minutes and like pieces in a puzzle, they all start coming together. It _hurts_ him all the time and makes him want to stay away from people as much as he possibly can because all of their pain seems magnified once Will takes it in. He can’t let it go either, not usually. Because Daddy made Will pretend to be Brian, he really was Brian for a little while. Now his echo is lingering in his head and his heart and it’s hurting him, too. So is his guilt. 

Spark lays a hand on his shoulder and Will jumps then scrambles off the end of the bed to huddle on the floor. “Stop,” he says.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Spark says.

He doesn’t listen to Will either, instead he climbs down off the bed to go sit beside him on the floor. Aware again, Will leans against his side with a shaking sigh.

“I had a bad dream,” Will says. He still feels like crying. There are stars _everywhere_ he looks. In his mind they are bright and solid, but outside his mind, in the room and even on Spark’s skin, they are faint and translucent. “A really _bad_ dream,” he says and then his shoulders jerk. He can feel Daddy pushing his hard, blunt thing inside of his body and he doesn’t want it. “Oh, God,” Will says. “It won’t _stop_. I can’t turn it off and he _hurts_.”

“What won’t stop?” Spark asks. “Who’s he?”

He wraps an arm around Will and tries to shush him, but Will can feel himself spinning further and further away. He is helpless to stop it because it’s dragging him and he can’t even find enough traction or footing to fight it.

“I can’t breathe,” Will gasps when he comes up for air again. He clings to Spark, trying to use him to ground himself. It’s working a little, but not enough for Will to feel okay at all. His pulse is racing, his mind is a mess of images and bad feelings and he’s still sweating. He gulps air in and tries to fill his lungs, but it’s not working. “ _I can’t breathe_ ,” he repeats and buries his face in Spark’s shoulder, seeking something he cannot define. Comfort, maybe.

“You gotta talk to me, Will,” Spark says. “What happened? Did you dream about your daddy or somethin’? I mean, like, did he touch you all wrong and shit?”

“I dreamed about _Brian’s_ daddy, who was my daddy for a little while, too,” Will said. “He found me last night and made me his _best boy_.” He retches and then shakes even harder, still trying to catch his breath.

“Um… Okay. What?” Spark asks.

“He wanted to play a _game_ ,” Will says through his teeth. “It was a bad, bad game. It’s in my head now and I can’t get it out.”

“Was he that guy you were with when I came back from handling the judge?” Spark asks.

“Yes,” Will says, hissing it through his teeth. “Yes, that was _Daddy_. He paid me extra so he could make me his son for a little while. Except… Except… I _know_ I was just for practice. I didn’t at first, I thought maybe if I let him do it to me then he wouldn’t actually do it to Brian. But I was wrong. I was _wrong_ and now… now there’s nothing but stars and pain and I can’t make him _stop_. I don’t want to be a good boy.”

He’s breathing too heavy and he feels lightheaded, chest tight with panic and he makes a miserable sound against the skin of Spark’s shoulder.

“He fucked with your head, that’s what he did,” Spark says. “Sometimes that happens, but not like this. _Never_ like this.” He strokes through Will’s sweaty hair. “Don’t take no more role-players, understand me? With whatever you got, it’s just a bad idea.”

“Daddy is a dirty man,” Will whispers. He’s here and yet, he is there again. He is Will and he is Brian. He doesn’t know which of them is more afraid. “He comes into my room and gives me massages. He touches inside of me.”

“Oh, wow, shit,” Spark says. “You are freaking me the fuck out.”

“Say my name,” Will says. “Please, say my name.”

“Your name is Will,” Spark says. “Will No Name.”

“Thank you,” Will says. His breath hitches in his throat and he shakes even harder and tries to push the stars out of his mind. “Make it stop, please.”

“I can’t—” Spark starts, but then he sighs. “I might can. I don’t want to though.”

“ _Please_ ,” Will repeats. “I don’t care what it is, just help me. If I can’t make this stop I’m going to lose my mind. I cannot _breathe_.” The panicked tightness of his chest seems to get worse and Will rubs at it. He knows this is a panic attack, but he also thinks he’s dying right now. Of course, that’s how panic attacks feel.

Spark doesn’t say anything, but when Will makes a whining sound through his teeth and tears ooze down his face, he gets up. “This is a bad idea,” he mutters. He does it anyway, goes to the closet and takes an old cigar box down from the top shelf. When he comes back to Will, he hesitates again, but finally sits down when Will cuts his eyes up to look at him.

“I don’t wanna do this,” Spark says.

“Please,” is all Will can manage.

“It’s fuckin’ heroin, Will,” Spark says. “I bought this shit like six months ago after… after something bad. It helped, I guess, but it’s bad ju-ju, too. I shoulda thrown the shit out when I was done with it.”

“Give it to me,” Will says. He’s a little afraid of the heroin, he doesn’t think he’s ever done drugs, save the little bit of pot and the pill at Mack’s party. Heroin is a hell of a lot different than pot and pills though. Will would rather take his chances though than be stuck in his head while Daddy and Brian and all the glowing stars are still there.

“No, man, I done did enough to fuck you up. I’m gonna go dump the shit,” Spark says and makes to rise.

Will grabs him in a fiercely tight grip. “ _Give it to me_ ,” he says through his gritted teeth. He slumps back and holds his head in his hands, trying in vain to tune all of the _noise_ out. “Spark, please.”

“Motherfucker,” Spark curses under his breath, but he sits back down. “If I do this, you gotta swear to me you won’t get hooked on this shit.”

“I promise,” Will says. Then he holds out his arm.

“I gotta cook it first, hold on,” Spark says as he opens the box. There’s a baggie of powder in there, mostly gone, a spoon and a cigarette lighter. There are also two wrapped syringes and a wad of cotton that looks like it was maybe taken out of a bottle of pills.

He opens a syringe first and goes to the bathroom to get some water. Will feels like he’s coming apart a little at a time. He stares at the foot of the bed, the rumpled covers and the tiny hole in the fabric covering the box spring. He cannot close his eyes because there is hell waiting in the darkness there.

Spark comes back and sits down next to him and Will leans against him once more. He keeps his eyes open and watches the out of focus blur of skin that is Spark’s shoulder.

“Here,” Spark says after a couple of minutes. He gently takes Will’s left wrist in his hand. He sighs. “You really sure about this?”

“Y-es,” Will’s voice comes out a choked rasp. He just wants it to stop. Daddy is singing him lullabies while he makes him suck his dick.

“Fuck, alright,” Spark says.

He unfastens Will’s cheap watch, the one he bought at the end of his second week on Spark’s suggestion. It’s not much, but it has a face that lights up and it’s accurate. It’s so he can time his tricks, but he forgot all about it last night with Daddy. Daddy gave him too much other stuff to think about.

“I’m puttin’ this here, so your watch band’ll hide it,” Spark says even though Will hasn’t asked. “Mack don’t like us usin’ needles, which is one of the only intelligent ideas that fucker has.”

“You did it,” Will says.

“Yeah, but not for long,” Spark says. “Call it my rebellious phase.”

“Did he find out and get mad or something?”

“No, I didn’t like is all and I just… dealt with the shit on my own after that,” Spark says. “You better now? You’re talkin’, so maybe you don’t need this after all.” He sounds hopeful.

“I haven’t blinked in ten minutes,” Will says. He gazes at the wall. His eyes are watering. “I can’t close my eyes without seeing… seeing…”

“I got it,” Spark says. “Here goes then.”

Then it’s there, a tiny pinch of pain and then warmth spreading up his arm with a tingle that is almost an itch. The rush in his veins makes Will roll his head back and he makes a low, almost moaning sound. Then he takes a deep breath and his body is expanding and contracting, filled with light, warmth and relaxation. He feels like the top of his head is going to gently blow off and with it will come a bigger wash of sunshine light.

Daddy recedes and Brian becomes obsolete until there is only Will sitting on the floor of their room. When he feels Spark take his hand, he holds onto it and then he’s being tugged upward. “Bed,” Spark says when he turns questioning eyes to him. Spark is a beautiful haze in his vision and Will could stare at him for hours. Which is kind of creepy probably, but Will doesn’t care at all.

“Thank you,” he says as Spark lays him down. “Thank you, thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” is Spark’s reply. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

“That’s not the right—you’re not supposed to apologize,” Will says. He patiently explains to Spark, “When someone says, “thank you” then you’re supposed to say, “you’re welcome”.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” Spark says.

Will thinks it’s obvious he doesn’t understand, but that’s okay, he forgives him. He forgives everybody because he is beyond that now. The bed is soft, he is on a cloud and his mind is full of softly flowing silver. He can float and forget and be at peace. It’s the most amazing thing Will has ever known. Here there is calm and joy and warm comfort. Here there is Spark lying down beside him and watching him. Will smiles at him and Spark closes his eyes against that smile. He says something under his breath, but Will can’t make out what it is. Heroin provides the best kind of limbo, Will thinks and then closes his eyes. He only rouses himself enough to roll over against Spark. It makes him smile when the familiar weight of his arm settles over his waist.

“I love you,” Will says against his chest.

“Shut up,” Spark says. “Close your eyes and think pretty thoughts. Go away from here and find a happy place.”

“Are you coming, too?” Will asks.

“I can’t,” Spark says. “I gotta stay here and keep watch.”

“Then here will be my happy place,” Will says.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you, Will No Name” Spark says. He pats Will’s back and then sighs again.

“Keep me,” Will says. It seems like a perfectly reasonable request to him.

Spark makes a bitter, sad sounding noise in the back of his throat. “No, I ain’t gonna keep you and you’re gonna stop wantin’ me to, too,” he says. “Remember what I told you about this little idea of yours?”

“It’s the very definition of an unhealthy relationship,” Will says. He thinks it’s a great idea, but he remembers thinking that before.

Spark pulls back from him to look him in the eye. Will blinks his bleary eyes at him and waits to see what he’ll say.

“That ain’t what I said, but it’s close enough. You thought about it, too, though didn’t you?” 

“Yeah, but it’s just, I’m thinking _now_ and—”

“You’re thinkin’ with a head full of heroin, which ain’t really thinkin’ at all,” Spark says. He looks sad again and Will wishes he’d stop looking like that.

“I just…” Will trails off, loses his place for a second, but then he remembers. “I wish that we could—”

“Leave wishin’ to the people who can afford to hope,” Spark gently interrupts him. Will watches him as the goldfish of his feelings swim around his heavy-light head. Spark shakes his head and cups Will’s cheek in his hand. “Got it?” he asks.

Will turns his face to the side, nuzzles Spark’s palm then kisses it once. “Wishing is a bad thing to do,” Will says.

“Right,” Spark says. He strokes his thumb across Will’s cheek once then takes his hand away. “Now close your eyes and get some rest.”

“Okay,” Will says.

He doesn’t really sleep at first, he just drifts, but eventually he does. His sleep is deep and dreamless, nothing but soothing blackness to keep him company.

**III**

They don’t go out that night. Will wakes up around 8 o’clock with a head that feels stuffed with cotton. He yawns and buries his face in the flat pillow and whuffs out a breath. He remembers most everything that happened that morning, but the heroin dulled it down—and seems to’ve left it that way, at least for right now. Everything after the tiny spider bite of the needle entering his vein is a pleasant blur. Finally, he rolls over and looks around the room and finds Spark sitting in the bloodstained recliner, sharpening the bone-handled boot knife he carries.

He looks up when Will stretches and grumbles under his breath and says, “We’re takin’ the night off. I think you need a break and after this mornin’, I’m not leavin’ you here alone.”

Will finds he is strongly disinclined to argue about that, but he does ask, “Won’t Mack be pissed?”

“I already talked to Mack and yeah, he’s pissed, but he’ll get over it,” Spark says. “We’ll go out Sunday instead and see if we can pull a few tricks, but it’ll be slow. Even pervs take the Lord’s day off, seems like.” He smirks to himself about that and scrapes his knife across the wet rock. Lifting it, he tests the blade against the pad of his thumb and shakes his head then goes back to sharpening it.

“Okay,” Will says. He spends a couple of minutes watching Spark sharpen his knife. The motions are almost hypnotic, as is the soft _scr-scr_ sound the blade makes. “Where’d you get that knife?”

“It was my grandpa’s,” Spark says. He holds the blade up and turns it, the metal flashing and winking in the lamplight. The edge glimmers, almost diamond white, it is so sharp now. “He carved the handle himself out of elk horn.”

“I like it,” Will says.

“Thanks,” Spark says back. “I like it, too. I don’t think he’d like the reason for me carrying it now though.” He stares at the knife then shakes his head and bends down to shove it back into the sheath at his ankle. “Good thing he’s dead then.”

“What happened to him?” Will asks.

“He died, like old people do,” Spark says. He presses his lips into a tight line and looks bitter about it.

“Yes, but _how_?” Will asks.

“Old man disease, I guess,” Spark says. He slides out of the chair and brushes his hands off on his jeans. “You hungry?”

Will ignores the question and sits up in bed. “You don’t like talking about yourself,” he says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Not much to talk about,” Spark says. “My life—that part of it—was a long time ago. I don’t talk about it ‘cause it makes it easier not to _think_ about it.” He turns to look at Will and quirks an eyebrow at him. “You ever wonder what your life was like?”

“Yes,” Will says. “I’ve determined it can’t have been very good for me to’ve deleted everything about it. Maybe it’s best that I can’t remember, but it still bothers me all the time. I guess I’m like you though, kind of—I try not to think about it.”

“Maybe you killed somebody or somethin’,” Spark says. He doesn’t sound bothered or concerned about it at all.

“Maybe, but I really doubt it,” Will said. “Do I seem like a killer to you?”

“I dunno, you crazy people’s unpredictable like that,” Spark says. Will can see the laughter dancing in his eyes, it’s in the tiny, barely there curve of his lips. He wants to smile.

“Uh-huh,” Will says. “Boo.”

“ _So_ scary,” Spark says and pretends to shiver. “You never answered my question: You hungry?”

Will nods and then scrubs at his face, trying to clear the last of his sleepiness from his mind. There’s a small ache in his wrist, under his watch band. He knows what it is. He wonders what it’d be like to do it again, just a tiny taste. It was so nice to _disappear_ for a little while. In his disappearing, he had found all was right with the world.

“I’s thinkin’ we can get some noodles from that Chinese place down the way. Maybe on our way back we can buy a bottle and bring it all back here,” Spark says. “Eat, drink and be merry, you know, shit people do.”

Will likes the Chinese restaurant’s chicken lo mein a lot, it’s a cheap place and looks like it may have a serious pest infestation problem, but the food is damn good. Until Will finds a deep fried cockroach in his egg roll, he’s decided not to worry about the generally unclean appearance of the place. He thinks a drink may be nice, too, especially if it’s just him and Spark sharing a bottle.

“Sure,” Will says. “Too bad the TV is broken, we could watch a movie.”

“I got a dinky little CD player and some CDs, we can listen to some tunes at least,” Spark says. “I keep it put up ‘cause you don’t just leave shit like that layin’ around since it tends to walk off. Now, c’mon, get changed and let’s go. Or are you gonna wear them stupid pants?”

Will looks down at his plaid pajama bottoms and plucks at them. He bought them at the Goodwill on his second trip because he didn’t want to sleep in a pair of torn up denim shorts and a t-shirt like Spark.

“My pants aren’t stupid,” Will says. He climbs off the other side of the bed and goes in search of a clean t-shirt and his shoes and socks in the bathroom. “And you know what? I think I _will_ wear them. I don’t feel like getting dressed.”

“Suit yourself,” Spark says. “Just hurry the fuck up and put your shoes on. I’m starvin’.”

Will puts on and ties his shoes then wanders out of the bathroom. He grabs a shirt at random out of the dresser, yanks it down over his head and then looks at Spark. “Let’s go then,” he says. “You’re very impatient.”

“I know,” Spark says, unapologetic. 

“Well, so long as you know,” Will says as they walk out the door.

“Uh-huh,” is Spark’s reply.

They spend the walk to the Chinese place in silence. Spark smokes and Will looks around at the way the night surrounds them. Spark goes in to order their food since it’s crowded inside and Will doesn’t really like large, loud groups of people. He’s come to realize his social skills are somewhat lacking. He finds humanity en masse to be off-putting and overwhelming. He has a habit of saying the wrong thing and only realizing it’s wrong _after_ the fact. He’s made two of the cashiers at the Goodwill so mad at him he thought they may hit him. He’s still not totally sure what he said that was so bad.

So, Will lets Spark handle the human interaction end of things whenever possible and is content with that. In fact, it makes him feel _much_ better because it alleviates some of the awful pressure he feels when shoved into social situations. Maybe it’s weird, but while he doesn’t like them, the tricks still aren’t as bad as dealing with a chatty cashier or an overly friendly waitress. Mostly because the johns don’t expect or want conversation.

Spark comes out 20 minutes later with their food and gives Will his change back from his half. They move away from the busy central street and slip back into the darker, quieter side streets. Spark smokes more and Will watches the shadows. It never fails to fascinate him how _alive_ the darkness is. Each swooping arc of smeared blackness is a hidden gallery, holding either something fantastic or something hideous. It is all part of the great and secret museum of night that falls across their part of the city. Will would wager that the night breathes more, _lives_ more, than the daylight here. He and Spark, they’re just two more exhibits, two more hidden galleries.

Will smiles to himself and when Spark looks at him, he just says, “I love the night.”

Spark nods, but doesn’t say anything. The understanding in his face is enough for Will. Up ahead of them, the lights of the convenience store they frequent glow like an oasis and Will squints against the sudden brightness. Next door to it is a 24 hour liquor store. Its windows are blacked out with heavy tint and neon signs advertising all manner of beer flicker in its windows.

“Guard the grub,” Spark says, passing him the food bag when they reach the liquor store.

Will nods and takes the bag then watches Spark slip inside the equally tinted door. It is as though the blackness of the shop has swallowed him and Will waits for his return, painted blue in the glow of a Bud Light sign.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They eat their food and when they’re done, Spark cracks the bottle of Canadian LTD he bought them. It’s a half gallon and Will wonders how they’re possibly going to drink all of that, but then he thinks they probably won’t. It will, however, leave them some for another day. Maybe a Sunday when they don’t have to work the sidewalk. They can do laundry and get drunk and walk around a little bit. Will likes that idea a lot. Mostly, he thinks he just likes Spark. That makes something tickle in the back of his mind, but he can’t get a handle on it, so he lets it go.

They’re a few passes of the bottle in when Spark gets up to take his CD player out of the closet. He digs around and comes back with a small stack of CDs, too. He sits it on top of the dead television, plugs it up and puts a disc in.

“You can pick the next one,” he says after he’s sat back down.

Will’s in the recliner, babysitting the bottle and he turns it up with one hand, taking the offered stack of music with his other. Most of them are marked with 1 and 2 dollar stickers from the Goodwill; a couple of them look pretty old though and have no stickers. Will knows these are the ones Spark brought with him from Montana. He bets that at one time, he had a Walkman CD player. He sees him listening to it on the bus, hoping the batteries don’t die before the next stop.

He blinks the images away and looks through the stack. He still doesn’t know what kind of music he really likes and thinks that’s odd. He knows other things or at least seems to, but not that. Maybe he didn’t listen to music before. Maybe he didn’t like it at all. 

Most of the discs are heavy metal and alternative music, but the last disc in the pile is a collection of George Jones’s greatest hits. It’s anomalous enough that Will feels his eyebrows lift. It’s one of the scratched-to-hell cases without a sticker.

“Why this one?” he asks and waves the CD at Spark.

Spark stares at it for a minute then reaches out and takes it from Will. He takes the bottle away from him, too. “Because,” he says.

“Because _why_?” Will asks.

Spark cuts his eyes to the side to glare at him. “You don’t fuckin’ quit, do you?”

“I like knowing things,” Will says.

With a scoff, Spark says, “Yeah. I noticed. It makes you do stupid shit, like with that freak that’s always pickin’ you up.”

Will frowns and wants the bottle back, but doesn’t ask for it. Instead, he watches Spark drink, watches the way his throat works as he swallows. It kind of hurts, in a dull, dreary way. Will looks down at his lap to take it from his sight.

“Something like that, but that’s different than this is,” Will says. “I kind of… want to… know you.”

“What in hell for?” Spark asks. Then he points at Will. “Even if I did wanna tell you, that shit ain’t fair. I don’t know nothin’ about you.”

“I think you know a lot about me,” Will says. “I may not remember my _life_ from before, but I’m still… myself. I think.”

“See? You don’t fuckin’ know,” Spark says. “Maybe you short circuited and this is an all new version of Will No Name. You ever think about that?”

“Yes,” Will says. “I also think that’s wrong though. This feels familiar, the way I am. The way I’m… unstable.”

Spark stares at him until Will shifts under the weight of his gaze. He clears his throat and looks back at his lap, twining his fingers in-out-in-out like he’s trying to weave the flesh together.

“My grandma loved No Show Jones,” Spark says after a good five minutes have passed. He gives the bottle back to Will after a quick swallow. “That’s why I’ve got this. It was hers and I took it after she died.”

“When did she die?” Will asks. He wonders if that’s why Spark ran away.

“When I was ten,” Spark says. “She was out riding with me and her _goddamned_ horse spooked, threw her and she hit her head on a rock. It cracked her skull wide open and I…”

He shakes his head and Will frowns at him. He can see it, a woman with hair as black as Spark’s, but streaked with grey. Her eyes wide open, pupils fixed and dilated as they stare up at the endless blue of the sky above her. Her head is an egg, her skull is the broken shell and her brain is the yolk. They leak out into the Montana soil with her blood like a sad poem. Spark is there, shaking her and trying to wake her up and when she doesn’t stir, he takes his own horse and rides like hell for home.

The horse that threw her was shot for it later. Will knows this.

“I’m sorry,” Will says.

“So am I,” Spark says. He clears his throat. “I quit riding horses after that. They kinda scare me now. I had my own horse though and I took care of her, visited her and stuff, but I couldn’t ever ride her again.”

“It’s understandable,” Will says. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Do you see it?” Spark asks him. He’s studying his reflection in the scuffed cover of the George Jones CD.

“Yes,” Will says.

“Then maybe you’ll get it when I say sorry doesn’t really cut it.”

“I do.”

“Good,” Spark says. “Hand me the bottle.”

Will hands him the bottle and leaves him to his unpleasant memories. He wishes that he hadn’t asked, hadn’t dug up that skeleton for Spark to visit. Will shuffles through the CDs while Spark sorts things out in his head. He finally decides to pick one at random—and partly because he finds the album title curious, _Vulgar Display of Power_. He wonders what that’s all about.

When the disc that’s playing— _Ten_ by Pearl Jam—is done, Spark takes the disc Will picked out and puts it on to play. Will winces as the first screaming notes roar out of the tiny stereo’s speakers and thinks maybe he chose wrong, but decides to give it a chance. 

About halfway through the disc, Will’s thinking they got the “vulgar” part of the title right anyway. He doesn’t mind it though once he gets used to it, although he liked Pearl Jam better. The music seems to pound away inside of his ribs, in his jaws and temples. For some reason, he wants to kick shit. He tells Spark this and Spark laughs at him.

“You sayin’ that music may actually move you to violence?” Spark asks.

“No,” Will says. “I am saying that it makes me feel… energized.” He cocks his head and listens. “They’re very angry though, I think.”

“Prolly,” Spark says. “Metal’s not _la-de-da_ happy music. Be weird if it was.”

“I suppose so,” Will says.

He takes the bottle when Spark passes it to him and drinks deeply. The next song on the disc catches his attention and what’s more is he can actually make out most of what is being said. Some of it’s merely an angry roar, although he finds that preferable to killing cops, buying shoes and fucking bitches. He’s read the liner notes—the lyrics at least make sense, even the more abstract ones.

One line in particular stands out to him and Will sits up straighter in his chair when he hears it. _No more head trip_.

“Will you play that one again?” Will says. “I like it.”

“Alright,” Spark says. He gets up to shuffle the disc back one track.

“Thanks,” Will says.

“Welcome,” Spark says.

“That’s how you do it,” Will says and then stops, cracking one eye open in surprise. “Where’d that come from?”

Spark’s looking at him kind of funny and Will wonders what that’s about. “No clue, dude,” Spark says. He lights a cigarette and fidgets with his lighter before reaching over to take the bottle back. He’s lying and he doesn’t really do that with Will, but he knows something Will doesn’t and he won’t tell him.

“What did I do?” Will asks.

“Nothin’,” Spark says. He fidgets more.

“Liar,” Will says. “What is it?”

“ _Nothin’_ ,” Spark says. “Just shut up about it.”

“I did something,” Will says, half muttering it as he tries to search his memory. “What did I do? Was it this morning after I… after you… The heroin?”

“No,” Spark says. He’s still now, scarily so and Will rubs the bridge of his nose. “It’s not a big deal, you were fucked up and you don’t need to worry about it.”

“I made you feel weird,” Will says.

Spark snorts. “You make it sound like you touched me in my no-no spot.”

Will’s eyes widen. He thinks about Daddy. He wonders if the heroin took Brian away and put Daddy in his place. “Did I?”

“ _No_ , you didn’t get all pervy,” Spark says. “Calm yourself down. You’re pretty high strung though, so good luck with that.”

“Good, I’m… that’s good,” Will says. “I thought maybe I was Daddy after.”

“Man, people fuck with your head all kinds’a bad, don’t they?” Spark says. “You’re fine, it’s all fine; you didn’t turn into a freak on me when…” He trails off with a shake of his head. “I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“It helped,” Will says. “It _helped_ , so you did the right thing for _me_.” He remembers something Spark said that morning though and leans forward in his chair a little bit. “Why’d you buy it to begin with though? You’re not a junkie; you don’t do much more than smoke except for at Mack’s party and tonight.”

“I told you: shit happened,” Spark says. “That’s all.”

“ _What_ happened?”

“Jesus fuckin’ _Christ_ ,” Spark snarls. He snatches the whisky away from Will and takes a long slug. When he lowers the bottle, he says, “I bought it ‘cause a trick kicked the ever-lovin’ shit outta me awhile back. Usually I can handle the ones that wanna get rough, but this motherfucker was a behemoth and there weren’t shit I could do about it other than lay there and take it and hope he didn’t fuckin’ kill me. Heroin’s cheaper than a doctor’s bills and it comes with a hell of a lot less nosiness. Now, will you _please_ stop asking me questions?”

“Oh,” Will says.

He frowns again and thinks that yes, he really needs to stop asking questions because he can see this, too. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like thinking of Spark so broken up and hurt that he needed heroin to find some relief. He doesn’t like knowing that Spark had to do that because it’s cheaper than seeing a doctor, even down at the free clinic because _free_ is a subjective term. He probably needed x-rays or stitches or both and that all costs extra, Will’s sure. They need a hospital for that. It does at least explain a few of the scars he’s seen on Spark’s body and the one he felt on the back of his head that night at Mack’s when they were on the steps.

“Quit it, man,” Spark says. “You’re gettin’ all dewy eyed and I can’t deal with you cryin’ over shit again.”

“Sorry,” Will says. “I won’t cry, I promise I won’t.”

He’s sorry for everything bad that has ever happened to Spark. He’s sorry he’s gone and fallen in love with him and therefore takes his hurts even more personally, feels them digging into his soft innards even deeper. Will tells himself he will never let Spark know that though because he doesn’t think Spark would like that very much. He’s glad he at least didn’t say something like that this morning; he’s pretty sure he’d remember that much anyway.

“Good,” Spark says. “You’re a seriously weepy motherfucker sometimes.”

“I can’t help it,” Will says.

“I know, I know,” Spark says. “You just have so many _feelings_.”

He turns his head and grins at Will and Will smiles back. The air feels lighter now, like it’s easier to breathe and Will nods his head, playing along.

“So, so many,” he agrees. “I feel them so much sometimes that I think I’m going to explode.” He drinks more and thinks, _Oops_ , because that was the truth, not playing along and making a joke. Sometimes he can’t even interact appropriately with Spark. It’s shit.

Spark’s smile softens, turns kinder and less amused as he leans over to pat Will’s knee. “I know you do, man,” he says. “I’m just messin’ with you anyway.”

“I know,” Will says. “Thank you for not caring about me being… weird.”

“Welcome,” Spark says. He gives Will a double thumbs up. “I got it right again.”

“Yep,” Will says.

He takes a contemplative sip of LTD and then gives Spark the bottle back. He really does wonder what he did, but he’s made himself a promise, too: He will ask no more questions tonight, he owes Spark—and himself, in a way—that much. To keep from breaking that promise, Will lapses into silence and Spark, as usual, is content with the quiet. They don’t need conversation 24/7 to be comfortable in one another’s company. Will thinks that is a good sign of a strong—

He tells himself to _stop it_ and takes another swig of booze to help that along.

The CD comes to an end and Will rouses himself from his watered down thoughts to say, “Play that… play that song again.”

Spark snickers and gets up to go back through the disc. “Have I made a Pantera fan out of you?” he asks.

“I’m… no, not a fan of _Pantera_ , but definitely a fan of that _song_ ,” Will says. “Where’s the whisky?”

“In my hand,” Spark says.

“It doesn’t go there,” Will says. He holds out his own hand, clearly illustrating for Spark where the whisky _really_ belongs.

“Hold on, hold on,” Spark says. He turns the bottle up to drink some more for himself and Will waits as patiently as he can manage.

“You could give me some more heroin,” he suggests. He’s been thinking about it. He’s never felt that good in his whole life, he doesn’t think. He’d been afraid, but now that he knows what it can really do, the service it provides, Will is thoroughly enamored with it.

“ _No_ ,” Spark says. He thrusts the bottle at Will. “You said—you promised—me you wouldn’t get hooked on that shit.”

“I’m not _hooked_ , I just liked it is all,” Will says. “There’s a difference.”

“Not much of one when it comes to that shit,” Spark says. “I shouldn’t—”

“For the last time: you _should’ve_ ,” Will says. “I’m fine. I’m _okay_ , so don’t… don’t worry about it, Spark. I get why you bought it, but I don’t get why you don’t _like_ it. It’s wonderful.”

Spark is glaring at the opposite wall and doesn’t answer Will at first. He lights a cigarette and draws on it angrily until the cherry glows fiery orange-red. “I don’t like feelin’ like my brain is offline, that’s why I don’t like it,” Spark says. “It’s not wonderful either and you need to get that through your thick skull. That shit will eat you from the inside out and fuckin’ destroy you in the end.”

Will cannot imagine how that would be a bad way to go. Then again, while he knows a lot of things, he doesn’t actually know a lot about drugs; aside from the fact they’re bad, _mmmkay_. Or at least that’s what he knew _before_ he found the silver lining of clouds in the sky of his brain’s atmosphere and floated there for a while. Now, he has very sincere and serious doubts.

“Drugs are bad,” Will says.

“Yeah, they really kinda are,” Spark snaps. “Pot’s fine, sometimes and beer or booze, those are fine, but all of it’s bad for you if you go overboard with it.”

“You smoke,” Will points out.

“And it’ll probably kill my ass one day, too, if this life doesn’t,” Spark says. “I started way young—thirteen—and now I need the damned things. Not all of it’s ‘cause I’m addicted to ‘em either, not in the normal way.”

“Physical addiction,” Will offers.

“Yeah, that, I guess,” Spark says. “It’s a lot in my head, too and they keep the stress down. But either way, they ain’t _heroin_.” He tilts his head in thought and then laughs. “Judgin’ from the way some people react to ‘em though you’d think they were. Shit you not, I think some people would freak out _less_ if you walked up and jabbed a spike right into their neck than they do if you light a cigarette in their general area.”

“Secondhand smoke scares them,” Will says.

He’s been breathing it for months now and he feels okay, although he understands long term exposure to it can be bad. Then again, he supposes the same holds true for jamming heroin into one’s veins. In fact, the long term is probably much _shorter_ there.

“Everything scares people nowadays, when they can be bothered to care,” Spark says. “When they finally do get bothered, look out ‘cause then you got a stampede on your hands. The self-righteous, bleating kind. I seen it before.”

Will laughs at the idea of a self-righteous stampede. It’s mostly just a mental picture of a bunch of rioting soapboxes. “What scares you?” Will asks. He’s breaking his promise to himself, but he’s not thinking about that.

“My future,” Spark says.

“Why?”

“’Cause I know where it’s gonna go and it ain’t nowhere good. It’s just a matter of _when_ , but I figure it’ll be before I’m thirty. Then I think how I got at least seven or eight years of this shit left and I don’t know, maybe sometimes I want it to be over sooner,” Spark says. “Your future scares me now, too. I dragged you into this shit and now you’re stuck just like me. I _damned_ you, Will No Name and all because I’s stupid enough to think I’s _helpin’_ some poor lost bastard that couldn’t remember who he was. Now you’re someone else or you will be soon and I…”

Spark scrubs at his face and coughs once before he gets up from the bed. “What will happen to you one of these days is _my fault_ and you deserve better than this shit. You _are_ better than this shit.”

Will passes him the bottle, leaning forward to bump his leg with it. Spark takes it and switches it to his right hand and drinks and drinks and drinks until Will thinks he must be suffocating; he must need to take a breath. When he lowers the bottle, Spark is gasping and Will tentatively reaches out to take his left hand. He holds onto just the tips of Spark’s fingers. He could’ve been a musician or an artist; he’s got the hands for it.

“I am not your fault,” Will says.

“Maybe not, but what your life is now _is_ my fault,” Spark says. “I didn’t care at first, but I didn’t know you then either. Now I like you. Now I see what a sweet, sad, royally fucked up individual you are. Now I know what a big damn mistake I made. Now it’s like… like usin’ a unicorn as a plow mule.”

“Don’t say that,” Will says. He knows about Spark’s guilt, he’s seen it before, but he didn’t realize it was this great. “I’m not miserable, I’m really not. It’s not great, hell, it’s not even _good_ , but this feels like it’s better than what I had before. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes… Would you believe me if I told you that I’m almost happy?”

“No, no I wouldn’t,” Spark says. His laugh is bitter and splinters like cracking slate in the tiny, smoky room. “You’re fucked up all the time by the shit that happens with the johns. Then you got assholes seem to home in on _you_ ‘cause of that unicorn thing of yours and they rip you apart. This shit’s gonna destroy you, man, ‘cause you can’t compartmentalize.”

“Maybe I’m stronger than I look,” Will says.

“You are or else you’d have fallen apart already, but you’re gonna get torn up sooner or later ‘cause you just can’t quit _seeing_ everything,” Spark says. “It gets in your head and then it roosts there and can’t nobody survive that shit for long without going nuts or gettin’ killed.”

“You have no faith in me,” Will says. “I can do this.”

“I have faith in you, lotsa faith, but I’m realistic, too,” Spark says. He finally closes his hand around Will’s fingers where they grip his. “I’ll take care of you if you can’t ever take care of yourself.”

“Because you won’t let me fall down,” Will says. “Or if I do, you’ll help me back up.”

“For as long as I can,” Spark agrees. He walks away then, gradually letting Will’s fingers slide from his hand until Will can’t stretch his arm any further and has to let go.

Will closes his hand around the lingering sensation and looks on as Spark smacks into the doorframe of the bathroom. “Fucking drunk. _Ow_ ,” he says. Then he laughs that bitter laugh of his. “Dad would be _so_ proud.”

About that, Will asks no questions. He does get up to find the song to play again and Spark’s laugh at that is a lot less bitter. It makes Will smile.

When Spark comes out of the bathroom, he passes the bottle to Will and says, “Keep it, I’m done for the night.”

“Okay,” Will says. He’s glad to have it. He found the repeat button on the CD player and now he can drink and listen to his song over and over again. He kind of likes that; the cyclical repetition of the music is almost hypnotic.

Spark stretches out across the foot of the bed after sit-swaying for a minute. It’s not long before he’s asleep and snoring softly. Will gets up one more time to turn the lamps on either nightstand off and closes the bathroom door partway so only the barest sliver of light leaks out into the room.

Then he sits in the dark and drinks, listening to Spark snoring and his song playing on repeat. He can hear the neighbors fighting briefly, but they fall quiet pretty fast for them. Maybe they’ve finally managed to kill each other. Will wouldn’t be surprised at all. The air conditioner hum-rattles, providing background noise to Will’s private symphony.

Spark’s hair gleams in the light trickling from the bathroom door and Will remembers what it looked like spilling across his knees in loops and whorls. He remembers what it felt like.

He leans forward and takes a lock in his hand and lightly runs it through his fingers before telling himself to _stop it_ once again. Will has no right to do that, none at all. It is not his to touch and he should keep his hands to himself.

Will closes his eyes, still thinking that, but also thinking he really needs to rest his eyes for a minute. His eye rest becomes an hours long blink until sometime or other he comes to from a murky dream about fire or ice, he’s not sure because either way, it was burning him. The radio is off, the bottle is no longer in his lap where he laid it—cap on, of course—before telling himself he was going to rest his eyes. Spark’s moved around to lay right in the bed, but not before he covered Will with the bedspread. Will is still freezing, it always gets cold in the room early in the morning, so that’s how he guesses the time; his eyes are too bleary to even bother trying to look at his watch.

He climbs onto the bed from the recliner, still half drunk and clumsy with it.

“Be quiet,” Spark murmurs, barely conscious enough to scold him for the interruption. Will grins and wiggles around as silently as he can then he covers them with the bedspread.

When he lies down and scoots close to Spark, he rolls over and loops an arm around him. Will lightly rests his fingers against Spark’s pulse and closes his eyes as well.

**IV**

They do go out the next day, hungover and grumpy with it, but after a couple of hours they start to feel a bit better. The coffee they’re making uncommonly frequent trips to the convenience store for may have something to do with that.

Spark’s off with a trick when Mr. Business pulls up by the light pole. Will recognizes his car right away and just goes. He’s been coming by a bit more frequently of late, at least twice a week now, but Will never knows which day it will be. He may have a schedule, but it’s not arranged according to the days of the week.

He slips inside of the car quietly, he knows the routine by now and they drive to the motel. Will rents the room, pockets the extra and then slips back out. He tells Mr. Business the room number. He doesn’t even nod to show he’s heard, he just goes to that area of the lot to park.

He wants to blindfold Will this time and even though it’s against the rules, Will lets him do it. He still hates him, but he also knows he’s not going to do anything particularly awful to Will while he can’t see him. That’s not part of Mr. Business’s design.

He keeps him for two hours—that’s another change, their… visits… are getting longer. He makes Will ride him and he’s not the best at it—he’s never done it before and his balance is a little off because of the blindfold. Mr. Business holds his hips to keep him steady though and Will finds a rhythm, one that is controlled by Mr. Business through the way he holds to Will’s hips. Firm, gentle pressure means _just right_ , tighter means _slow down_ and a loosening of his grip followed by a sharp tap on Will’s right hip _means go faster_. 

Will is aching, as usual, by the time they get to that part and the controlled way Mr. Business has him fucking him, makes him sweat and shake. Which is also usual.

When he finally lets Will go a little bit, it doesn’t take him long to gasp out, “I’m close.”

Mr. Business takes one hand off his hips and plays with his left nipple until it is stiff and when he lightly pinches it, Will whimpers. There is a promise there, one he half wants Mr. Business to keep. Even as he thinks it, Mr. Business begins to slowly apply more pressure until it’s a stinging throb. This is another seed being sown, he thinks.

“Now,” Will manages to get out.

His rhythm falters as his muscles tighten and shiver under his skin and then it breaks through him the same time a rush of pain does. Mr. Business viciously twists his nipple just as Will’s back bows as the first wash of his orgasm leaks through his blood. This time it is no river either, this is a flash flood because the two occur at almost the same time and there is a line blurred somewhere in Will’s brain. It’s happened before, but this is even more intense. He can barely breathe as it rolls over him, sucking his mind as empty as the vacuum of space. All he knows is pain that’s dressed up as pleasure so well his mind and body can’t really tell the difference. The seed has been sown.

When it’s over, Will shakes longer than usual—a good while longer, in fact. His mind is empty save a faint hum of white noise. Then Mr. Business rouses him, tells him to get dressed and get out. Will has come to expect this from Mr. Business and simply does as he’s told. His nipple is still throbbing and he thinks it may leave a bruise.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will walks back to the light pole and thinks as he goes. The summer wind is hot and moist as it blows into his face. It stirs all kinds of odors around in the air, some bad and some good. They all combine to create a new kind of stink and Will wonders what fresh air smells like. He wonders if he’s ever smelled the clean sharpness of summer air that isn’t hung with exhaust fumes and the scent of old cooking grease like a garland of pollutants.

He breathes the stench in and thinks that Mr. Business is a scientist. Professional or amateur, it doesn’t really matter because either way, Will is his test subject; his experiment. What he’s attempting is psychological and he’s been doing it so slowly that Will hasn’t realized it until now, although he does allow that the night Mr. Business dug into the bruise on his ribs, it was a hint. He’s trying to teach Will something without Will knowing it. Most people would think he’s just rough, but there’s a certain calculation to what he’s doing. Mr. Business is too fond of control and precision to merely be _rough_.

Some of the control he exerts over Will is actually secondary to his real goal. It is, as they say, a means to an end. In order for the experiment to work the way Mr. Business wants it to—if it works at all—he has to have Will’s complete cooperation. That means controlling him through not only the money he pays him, but through how he moves him, how he pushes him to the brink and then leaves him hanging there. A subject that deviates too far left or right is not a stable subject. In order to properly study and conduct his experiment to the fullest extent he can—and this is not exactly a clinical study standard level procedure at all—then Will must be his to control. If he controls Will then he _knows_ when it is time to push the button.

Will mulls that over as he walks and quietly congratulates Mr. Business: His experiment is working. All of his carefully sown seeds have started to sprout. Will wonders how long it will be before they bear fruit and if he even wants to go that far. He’s figured out the theory the hypothesis is based on, but he doesn’t know if he wants to follow through on it, see where the experiment leads. Will the hypothesis prove correct or incorrect? There are still too many variables at this stage to even attempt an accurate prediction of the outcome yet.

A car horn blaring rips Will out of his head and he jumps back as a car flies by him too fast for a city street. “Get outta the way, asshole!”

Will recognizes the charmingly ruined screech of Lady Crack Head’s voice and shakes his head. He doesn’t understand how such annoying people as crack heads can be allowed to exist. Apparently they have short life spans as a rule, so Will does take some comfort in knowing natural selection is still at work even in this advanced and modern age.

Amused and little worried about actually wandering into traffic as Spark wondered about in the Goodwill that day, Will puts Mr. Business aside. He can think about him later, maybe while he’s sucking someone off. He’s found it’s easiest to rely on autopilot in such situations. Hell, in _all_ situations—except the ones where they manage to leak into all of Will’s badly patched mental walls and stain his mind with their peculiar twists and perversions.

He makes it back to the light pole without encountering anymore angry druggy neighbors. Spark’s there, doubled over on himself and laughing softly, his hands over his mouth to try and muffle it.

“What’s funny?” Will asks as he steps onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, man, my last trick is what’s funny,” Spark says through coughing bursts of laughter. “He was just… so _weird_.”

“Isn’t weird bad when it comes to tricks?”

“Sometimes, but sometimes it’s fucking hilarious,” Spark says. He breaks off into another fit of laughter.

He watches Spark laughing and cocks his head, wondering what it could be. “What did he want or do or… whatever?” Will asks.

Spark holds a hand up for Will to wait while he gets his laughter under control. When he finally seems to have himself under control, even though the corners of his mouth are jerking up and down as he fights back his smile, he says, “The dude gave me a bottle of lube, that warming shit, right?” Will nods. Mr. Business tried some of that last week. It wasn’t bad, really. “Well, anyway, he gives me this stuff and then…” Spark takes a deep breath and then laughs again.

“Come on, _tell me_ ,” Will says.

“Okay, okay,” Spark says. “Anyway, he asks me to sit behind him and wrap my legs around him. I asked him what for, curiosity you know and it may be extra—I don’t like surprise extras. So, he tells me all calm and patient-like that he wants me to _jerk him off with my feet_.”

“What? Can you even do that?” Will says. He’s already working out the mechanics of it in his head.

“Yeah, you can do that,” Spark says. “ _I’ve_ never done it before, which is sayin’ something ‘cause I thought I’d seen all the weird shit the foot freaks can come up with, but I was wrong. So, I tell him it’s extra and he’s cool with that. Then he asked me how much more extra it’d be for me to sing him “Happy Birthday” while I did it.”

“What?” Will asks. He snickers as the mental image fully presents itself and yeah, it’s really funny. The look he’s sure was on Spark’s face while doing so only makes it funnier.

“Uh-huh,” Spark says. “Fucker asked me to sing him “Happy Birthday”. Well, I told him happy birthday, said some of the shit they like to hear about how I was glad he decided to treat himself on his special day, blah-blah-blah. Then he says, ‘Oh, it’s not my birthday, I just really like the song.’ I’m glad he had his back to me ‘cause the look on my face when he said that shit woulda lost me that trick.”

“I am so glad I haven’t met any foot freaks yet,” Will says around his laughter.

“Give it awhile, you will,” Spark says. “They’re _everywhere_. Years ago, one of ‘em even told me that foot fetishes are the number one fetish in all the world. I’ve had people kiss my feet, bathe them, lick them, massage them—I gotta say, that was actually pretty nice—and jerk _themselves_ off while just _lookin’_ at my feet. Even had one wanted to paint my toenails, but I told him no deal on that one, so he just sucked my toes instead.”

“What the hell?” Will asks. “I mean… they’re _feet_.”

He wonders if his feet would stir amorous feelings in a john. He doesn’t think so, his feet are pretty ugly really—as are most feet, he thinks. Spark has high arches and all that, but he also has toes so long he can pick things up with them. Will doesn’t find anything at all attractive about Spark’s feet. Then again, he’s also pretty damn sure he’s nowhere near having a foot fetish, so that stands to reason. He does wonder what causes them though—it has to be something if Spark’s former john is to be believed and it’s the number one fetish in the world.

“I dunno, but it’s always weird and kinda funny,” Spark says. “The fetishists are way the fuck off, some of them. Seems like they keep that shit so bottled up most of the time that when they finally take the lid off, that crap explodes everywhere. It makes them a special kind of intense—it’s funny _and_ a little creepy.” He smirks and cuts his eyes to the side to look at Will. “Wait ‘til you get—or give—your first spanking.”

“Seriously?” Will asks. He can’t even think about that without being torn between laughter and annoyed humiliation. “No.”

“Yep,” Spark says. “Course, the upside to them is if they hit your ass too hard, you can tell ‘em to fuck off and show’s over.”

Will just makes an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat that suggests he doesn’t like this game anymore and Spark only laughs again. He bumps Will with his hip and says, “Have you been naughty? Do you need a spankin’?”

Will snorts laughter and wrinkles his nose in distaste at the same time he pushes Spark back. “Not me. Maybe you do though.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been _very naughty_ ,” Spark says. He widens his eyes and bites his bottom lip before letting it go with a soft _pop_. He’s really good at this stuff, Will thinks. Then again, he’s had a lot of practice. “I need to be _punished_. Spank my bottom ‘til it’s cherry red. Oooh, I need it.”

“That is disgusting and disturbing in equal amounts,” Will says.

“I know, right?” Spark says. The looks melts away from his face quick as a blink and he smiles again.

The _look_ on his face was neither disgusting or disturbing. It was, in fact, very hot and Will feels the now familiar warm ball in his belly that is left behind in its wake. There is minimal comfort in the fact that the warm ball does not feel fuzzy. He doesn’t understand the term “warm fuzzies” really. He does understand how Spark’s already big eyes widened to almost anime ridiculousness in size and his full bottom lip, still moist and faintly glistening, could get the attention of a trick any day of the week.

Will blinks it all away and says, “I think I’m going to get more coffee. You want some?”

“Yeah,” Spark says. “Want me to walk with you?”

“Yes,” Will says.

As they walk, Spark throws his hands up and says, “Okay, I gotta ask. What did the weirdo do tonight? Have you figured out what the fuck his deal is?”

“I think he’s a scientist,” Will says.

“And what, you’re the experiment?”

“Yes, exactly,” Will says.

“That’s fucked up, man,” Spark says. “What _is_ the experiment?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I think he’s trying to teach me to like pain,” Will says.

Spark stops dead on the sidewalk. “He _hurts_ you? You… You seriously let that motherfucker _hurt you_?”

“It’s not permanent and it doesn’t break any of the rules,” Will says. He does not tell Spark about the blindfold—he will not.

“That is so _not_ the point,” Spark says. “The fuck does he do to you?”

“The first time he really didn’t do anything aside from… uh… doing me funny,” Will says. “Other times he’s grabbed my hips really hard, that time after the trick kicked me he dug his fingers into the bruise the asshole left. Last week he slapped my hip so hard I _thought_ it was going to bruise. A couple of other things. Um… tonight he pinched my nipple and then when I… you know… right before—he makes me tell him—he twisted it really hard. The pain is getting more intense every time and so… I don’t know. He’s planting seeds.”

“Seeds,” Spark repeats flatly. He cuts his eyes to the side to look at Will. “And how does your garden grow, Will No Name?”

“I has begun to sprout,” Will says. He feels a little vulnerable admitting that and wonders what Spark must think of him for letting Mr. Business do the things he’s been doing all in the name of figuring him out.

“Do you have _any_ idea how messed up that shit is? I know I’ve said your thing with this dude is _fucked_ , but now that I know the rest of it, I gotta say it again,” Spark says. “You _need to stop_ with this shit. You know his design now; he’s turning you into some kinda pain junkie or somethin’. Now leave it alone before that damn garden… thing… of yours starts really takin’ off.”

“Metaphor, the garden thing is a metaphor,” Will says. “I don’t know _why_ he’s doing it though. I want to know why.”

“First you wanted to know how and now you want to know why,” Spark says under his breath. He shakes his head, long braid twitching through the air and bumping Will’s arm. “And fuck your metaphor.”

“I want to follow through,” Will says.

“Or maybe your metaphor has already gotten bigger than you think and you just want more of what he’s givin’ you,” Spark says. “You ever think about that?”

“No,” Will says.

He is now though. Maybe a seed was already there, something dormant laying forgotten in the blocked off passages of his mind. Maybe Mr. Business is the one that pushed enough of the rubble aside to wake it up. Maybe the potential lies within Will to become this… masochist… Mr. Business is attempting to turn him into. Maybe he didn’t even know it before. Then again, maybe no one does, at least not when they aren’t consciously aware of its existence. Will wanders on, lost in thought and not paying one bit of attention to where he’s going. His feet lead and he follows, it’s easier that way when he’s got so much to think about.

Spark grabs his shoulder and keeps him from smacking right into the door of the convenience store. Will jerks back and blinks at his ghostly reflection in the smudged glass.

“You know enough now, so fuckin’ leave it alone,” he says as he tugs Will away from the plexiglass.

“Maybe,” Will allows. He can give Spark that much. Still, the need to know _why_ Mr. Business is doing this gnaws at him, so he can’t actually promise he won’t take him on anymore. He would hate to break a promise to Spark.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When they finally get home that morning, Spark asks to see his nipple and Will shows him. It’s still puffy looking, way more red than its usual pale pink. Around the areola the skin is darkening to a bluish purple.

“Did he try and rip it off?” Spark asks.

He lightly touches Will’s nipple with a wince of sympathetic pain. The tiny pain it causes sends a light shiver through Will’s belly. He moves away and drops his shirt. Yes, the garden is growing. His body is becoming confused. He wonders what that will mean for him if he continues to allow this.

“One more time,” Will says. “I want to see him one more time.” He takes a deep breath, asks himself if he’s sure and when he realizes he is, he adds, “Then I’ll quit seeing him. I promise.”

“You sure?” Spark asks. “I don’t like you lettin’ yourself be used as a science experiment.”

“Why? People use me for everything else,” Will says.

“Yeah, but they don’t try to rewire your brain in the process,” Spark tells him. He pushes Will’s hair out of his face almost absently and studies him for a moment. “You already got enough crossed wires up there, you don’t need anymore. Don’t let this asshole fuck you up just because you’re curious.”

When he takes his hand away and turns to go into the bathroom for his turn at the shower, Will closes his eyes and feels the way his hair springs back, softly falling over his forehead again now that Spark’s hand is gone.

“You have my word,” Will says.

“Good,” Spark says and then he shuts the bathroom door for the one little bit of privacy they have in their lives.

Will, already showered with his teeth brushed—three times—climbs into bed. He doesn’t let himself sleep until Spark climbs in beside him and wraps his arm around him, but then he allows himself to sink down into the dark. The dark where his blank-paged book awaits him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's interested, the song Will takes such a liking to is “This Love” by Pantera. You can listen to it [**here**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fKlgxSKNdU), if you'd like.


	3. July

_“I’ve been watching me fall for it seems like years_   
_Watching me grow small, I watch me disappear_   
_Slipping out my ordinary world, out my ordinary eyes_   
_Slipping out the ordinary me into someone else’s life”_

— The Cure   
“Watching Me Fall”

**I**

As though Spark is some kind of sidewalk prophet, Will has to perform his first spanking on a trick shortly after their conversation. It is July 1st.

He’s an average looking guy, save his eyes, which are truly beautiful. They are some deep shade of liquid blue-green. They make Will think of lagoons or warm oceans where the shallows begin to run into the deep. He also has dimples and when he smiles at Will, it takes him aback because it’s a real smile that’s perched there on his face beneath his lovely, anxious looking eyes. It takes him from average to actually attractive. He was probably a cute kid. Will tells himself that is a totally inappropriate thing to think when climbing into a vehicle with a stranger so that they may exchange sexual favors for money.

The john is wearing a work shirt that says his name is Mike. Mike, according to his shirt, works at the Wal-Mart Automotive Center. They do oil and lube jobs, they have a tire center. His uniform is working double duty as a billboard. Two birds, one stone; same old, same old.

Will pays for the room thinking this is going to be just another trick, just another suck-and-fuck then it’ll be back to the streetlight. It’ll be back to Spark and their long, comfortable silences broken by bursts of conversation. Then they go into the room and things get… _different_ … after that.

The guy closes and locks the door behind them then looks right at Will who is standing by the bed with his hands dangling at his sides, watching him.

“What can I do for you?” Will asks. He licks his lips and forces a sliver of a smile. It’s still not very good, but it’s better than it was in the beginning. With time, he will improve even more. Maybe. Spark’s been coaching him on how to properly woo the tricks and Will’s recent endeavors have met with some success. A couple have even tipped him. A sex worker waiter, that’s Will No Name.

“I um… I want you to…” Mike of the Wal-Mart Automotive Center breaks off and shifts his weight nervously.

“Come on, baby, don’t be shy,” Will says, trying not to choke on the words; on the heaviness of the insincerity in them. He makes himself move away from the bed and close the (safe) distance between them. He touches Mike’s shoulder, runs his hand down his arm. There is grease on his sleeve and he smells like car parts and the leftovers of cologne or aftershave. “Tell me what you need. Tell me what I can do for you.”

The words still come out too stilted, they stick in his throat and make it difficult for him to speak them. The tricks almost never seem to notice that and Will’s coming to understand that it’s not _how_ he says these things; it’s that he says them at all. It dresses up the situation better, presents it all bow-tied and gift-wrapped as the intimacy it isn’t. It makes the tricks feel better, even though Will feels like a fool trying to spout poetry, but only managing to drool on himself instead because the words are tangled up in his throat. But hey, whatever gets the job done.

Mike looks at him with his deep water eyes and takes a shaking breath. He reaches into his back pocket for a short, plastic ruler and offers it to Will. Will takes it because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I want you to spank me,” Mike at last manages to get out in a whisper.

“That’ll cost extra,” Will says automatically. Inside, his mind is whirling in a quiet panic and he silently damns Spark for ever saying anything about spankings to begin with. If he hadn’t said anything then this probably wouldn’t have happened. Will knows exactly _nothing_ about spanking anyone.

“Sure, yeah, okay,” Mike says. He licks his lips nervously. They’re dry, Will notices, the skin lightly peeling in the middle of his bottom lip. “How much?”

Will quotes him the price, Mike nods and doesn’t hesitate to take out his wallet and give him the cash. Will forces another smile and sticks the money in his pocket.

How to do this? How to do this?

“Tell me how you want it,” Will says. He makes himself touch Mike’s arm again and slides his hand down it to grasp his wrist so he can gently pull him towards the bed.

“Uh… well,” Mike starts, but stops to lick his lips again. “You sit on the foot of the bed and I like… lay across your lap and then… you know.”

Will nods. He knows that much at least. “Do you want my clothes on or off?”

“Leave them on,” Mike says. “It’s… I like it better that way. It’s more… more…” He trails off with a shrug and Will leaves him to it as he goes to sit on the foot of the bed.

Mike begins undressing, fingers fumbling and nervous as a kid on prom night. There are no surprises there, at least not until Mike takes off his boxers. Then there’s a real surprise and Will’s mouth falls open a little bit. He really was not expecting Mike’s blue plaid boxers dropping to reveal a pair of shell pink, lace thong panties. There is even a bow on them, it’s a darker pink than the panties themselves and made of satin. It shines like a tiny beacon where it rests in the low-cut center of the waistband.

Will holds tighter to the ruler in his hand and tells himself not to ask questions. He isn’t judging here, but he is curious and that, he has found, is his curse. Well, one of them anyway.

“I’ve been bad,” Mike whispers. He has his hands behind his back and is curling his toes against the nappy carpet.

“How bad?” Will asks.

“Very bad,” Mike says. “I’m a bad, bad boy.”

Will figures out where this is going and realizes this is also a little role-playing here; there’s some kind of ceremony to it anyway. He desperately hopes this does not mess with his head the way Daddy did.

“You know what happens when you’re bad,” Will says. He lowers his voice and makes himself sound as displeased as he can manage. He tuts at Mike under his breath. “I’m so ashamed of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike says. He risks a glance up at Will from beneath his eyelashes.

Will scowls at him, hoping he looks stern enough because he suddenly has to fight down the powerful urge to laugh. He looks away from Mike to hide the grin threatening to crack across his face.

“I can’t even look at you right now,” Will says.

He bites his lip. He doesn’t find Mike absurd, per se, but _he_ feels absurd sitting here doing this… whatever it is. He wonders what it is that drives people like Mike to put on pink thongs and go in search of punishment or discipline. Do they think they deserve it for some reason? Possibly. Or maybe they just like it, there’s always that. Wires get crossed, Will knows that all too well. It does not, however, make him feel any less ridiculous right this moment.

“Are you mad at me?” Mike asks. His voice is very small.

“I am very angry at you,” Will says, turning his head back to look at Mike. “I am angry and I am _disappointed_.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Mike asks. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.

Will takes in his erection, notices how the head of his hard cock peeps above the low waist of his panties. The bow is right there in all its garish pink glory, almost like a tiny little bowtie.

“You know what I’m going to do.” On a whim, Will smacks the ruler against his palm. Mike jumps and looks at him again, lip back in his mouth, pretty eyes wide and glazed looking. The anticipation alone is getting him off. “Come here so I can give you your punishment.”

“What is my punishment?” Mike asks.

“A spanking,” Will says. He whispers it and watches Mike’s eyes flutter closed.

“Please, no,” he says anyway. His breath has quickened.

“There’s no other way,” Will says. “You know I hate having to do this, but you need to _learn_ that misbehaving is not a good thing. If you’re a bad boy then you get treated like a bad boy.”

“I know,” Mike says. “I get what I deserve.”

He hangs his head with shame and then, much to Will’s quiet horror, he gets onto the dirty carpet. Will wants to tell him to get up, that the rug is filthy and there’s no telling what he’s crawling through, but he holds his tongue. Instead, he watches Mike crawl the short distance on his hands and knees. It’s a bit awkward for Will to watch. Once he’s there, he sits up, but remains on his knees with his head bowed and hands resting on top of his thighs.

“On my lap,” Will says. “Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike says.

 _Sir?_ Will quietly wonders. Then Mike is laying himself out across his lap and that, too, is awkward. He’s looking down at Mike’s bare ass and wondering how he can stand the thong’s string—doesn’t it drive him up the wall? Mike’s ass is as pale as a winter moon and there’s a small pimple on the right cheek. His hard-on is digging into Will’s upper thigh.

Mike wiggles and squirms slightly in Will’s lap, anticipating the first blow. It rubs his hard cock all over Will’s leg. He frowns and then bites back another laugh. He thinks of the head of Mike’s cock peeping over the waist of the thong like Kilroy and has to bite his lip very hard indeed to keep from snorting out laughter.

“You… have been… _so bad_ ,” Will says at last. Then he brings the ruler down in a soft smack and Mike whimpers. Will rolls his eyes and does it again, a little harder.

As he gradually picks up the pace and pressure of his strikes, Will begins to piece it together. Something went a bit awry in this young man’s formative years. Time spent over his father’s knee started to make him feel tingly in a weird way. His cheeks would always be flushed afterward and he’d stopped crying years ago. The first time he popped a boner while his father was disciplining him was probably also the last time.

Now he’s in Will’s lap and crying out with wild, hoarse abandon. “Oh, oh, it hurts! Stop it!” he whines, but his cock is still hard and he’s lifted his ass up, presenting it eagerly as a better target.

“Not until you’ve learned your lesson, young man,” Will says. He thwacks his ass with the ruler again, over and over, until Mike is whimper-whining and rutting against his thigh.

“Oh! Oh!” he barks when Will smacks him particularly hard.

His ass is bright red all over, places where the ruler has fallen multiple times an even deeper, almost dark, red. Will can feel the heat coming off the abused skin. He still wonders what Mike is getting out of this, although it is very obvious he _is_ getting something here.

“You are so naughty,” Will says through clenched teeth. He’s sweating and his arm’s getting a little tired. “This is what happens to bad boys that don’t do their homework and get bad grades.”

“I’m sorry!” Mike wails.

“This is what bad boys get when they play with their sister’s underclothes,” Will says. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. “You are a dirty, _dirty_ boy, Michael!”

“I am so bad!” Mike bawls in agreement. He whines through his clenched teeth and bucks against Will’s thigh.

He comes with a gasp and a shudder and Will smacks his ass one more time before he actually realizes it. There is hot moisture leaking through the leg of his jeans and _shit_. He should’ve made him wear a condom, but he didn’t think the guy would actually _come_. Now he’s got semen all over his jeans and some guy’s bright red ass staring him in the face.

Will slips out of the role he stumbled into and just sits there feeling like a jackass. He feels humiliated now and _messy_.

“Punishment is over,” Will manages to say. “You’re forgiven—for now.”

Mike is panting and boneless where he’s laying across Will’s knees, but he picks his head up and nods. “Thank you for teaching me the difference between right and wrong,” he says.

Will thinks he was probably taught to say that as a kid and it’s been absorbed into his kinks. It’s interesting, but also disturbing. It’s also amazing the weird sexual urges family can cause in people. Although wanting a spanking is vastly different than wanting to rape your child.

Mike gets up from his lap and stumbles back into his clothes. When Will holds the ruler out to him, he takes it and looks like he’s about a second away from kissing it, but manages to restrain himself.

He smiles at Will again when he goes to leave and says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Will says. He’s staring down at the smeared glob of come on his jeans. When he hears the door close, Will finally says, “Ugh.” Then he gives himself a minute or two to sit and giggle about all of this.

Once he’s got most of the laughter worked out of his system, he goes into the bathroom and does the best he can to scrub the jism out of his pants leg with one of the motel room towels. He still feels amused and vaguely humiliated and perplexed overall. 

Back at the street light, he tells Spark all about it. Spark laughs and laughs, which makes Will smile because he likes to make him laugh. “Told ya,” is all Spark says about it though.

Will grunts at him and looks down at the newly sprouted weed in the sidewalk. He doesn’t know what kind this one is. A few minutes later, a car pulls up and takes Spark away. Instead of standing there and waiting for another john—he needs a break after Mike, damnit—Will wanders down to the convenience store for some coffee. He thinks maybe he’ll buy himself an ice cream bar for a snack, too and a Star Crunch for Spark to have when he gets back.

**II**

One morning near the middle of the month, Will wakes to Spark gently butting his head against the back of his shoulder. “Wakey, wakey, Will,” he says.

Will rolls over and nestles against him. Spark just laughs and pokes him lightly along his ribs, tickling in a faint and annoying way. Will twitches away from the touch with a grumble and finally says, “What?”

“Wake up, that’s what,” Spark says. Then he’s gone, scooted off to the far side of the bed, taking his warmth and freshly showered scent away.

Will gives an unenthusiastic snort and finally blinks his eyes open. He stares at Spark, stretched out on his belly with his arms crossed and head turned to lay on them. He’s watching Will right back. Something’s a little off, Will thinks, but he’s too damn tired to think very much about it right now.

He had a rough morning, waking two different times from two different dreams. One was of the ever-so painfully familiar blank book and the other was a mix of ugliness that Will could barely sort out. Antlers and mushrooms and _Daddy_ and Mr. Business and blood-blood-blood— _blood everywhere_. His head had been throbbing, verging on migraine bad, when he’d woken from that one. It had taken him over an hour to drift into sleep again.

Spark always lets him sleep longer because of that and because it doesn’t take Will as long to get ready to go out. He showers, rakes a comb through his hair, puts on deodorant and then gets dressed; sometimes he shaves and sometimes he doesn’t. Spark needs at least a two hour head start just so his hair will have time to dry enough he can braid it. Last week he said he was going to cut it all off; it’s hot and it’s a pain in the ass to keep up. Will managed to talk him out of it because Spark with short hair doesn’t seem like Spark at all. That and Will may be a little fixated on it, but he keeps that part to himself.

“Go shower, it’s late and we got shit to do tonight,” Spark says.

Will wonders at that because they have shit to do _every_ night, save Sunday and sometimes even then. Still, he just grunts and scoots off the foot of the bed, grabs some clothes without really looking at them and bumbles his way into the shower. At least the shower will wake him up some. Once he does finally find rest, he sleeps like a dead man and it takes ages for him to wake up. He hears Spark leave the room, the dull thud of the door shutting barely audible over the roar of the shower. The tiles all have mildew in the grout and some are chipped, but the water pressure is excellent, the spray of the shower just shy of being a needle sting it comes out with such force.

By the time he’s showered and dressed, Spark is back and has come bearing gifts of coffee and a cheeseburger from Nelly’s. Will is thankful for the food and caffeine as he takes his spot in the bloodstained recliner and proceeds to attempt inhaling his fries. He thinks he’s lost weight since waking into this new, strange life of his. Not a lot, but some, enough it’s obvious in the way his old shirt fits him now. All of the walking and sweating and fucking have proven to be amazing exercise. That and he only eats a couple of times a day, mostly subsisting on coffee, chewing gum and the occasional snacky cake.

Spark is quiet, which isn’t unusual, but this kind of silence is odd. It’s tense, a little strained and Spark is smoking a lot more. He’s practically lighting one cigarette off the smoldering end of the last.

“What’s wrong?” Will asks.

“Nothin’ is wrong,” Spark says. He spares a glance at Will before looking back down at the carpet and blowing smoke out of his nose in a stream that clouds around his face, obscuring it for a moment. “We just gotta go somewhere tonight.”

“Where?” Will asks.

“A party,” Spark says. He sighs and takes another drag of his cigarette. Will watches a curl of ashes fall from the end to the floor. “Mack called while you was asleep and told me. Mack likes to _diversify_ , he calls it and sometimes that means you gotta go to a house and fuck a bunch of bored rich guys.”

“How’s he manage that?” Will asks. They’re not exactly high-end escorts, the sort Will would think usually did that kind of thing.

“I dunno,” Spark says. “Last night it was some trick of Angel’s asked him about it and he called Mack. Shit was arranged and now Mack’s driving us all over to where-the-fuck-ever to be the evening’s entertainment.”

“Why us?” Will asks. “I mean, if they’re so rich then why not an escort service or something?”

“Because we’re cheaper and we aren’t as picky about what we will and won’t do,” Spark says. “Which means they can do damn near anything they wanna with us, where with the pampered pieces of ass, they usually can’t.” Spark bares his teeth and then lights another cigarette with a shake of his head. “We’re merchandise it’s okay to bruise up a little bit.”

Will puts his cheeseburger aside, suddenly not hungry. He does get what Spark is saying and there are rich johns that come down their way—Mr. Business for one. Beating them up is not allowed (but it damn well happens), hardcore kink is not allowed, but no—no one cares if they end up with a bruise or two. They can’t—don’t—say anything if they get fucked a bit harder than they may like, so long as there’s no blood. They’re not in any kind of position to pick and choose the way higher class prostitutes are.

“So, what happens at these parties?” Will manages to ask. He’s dreading this, not only all the johns, but the _party_ aspect of it. It sounds a lot like he’s going to be expected to socialize and maybe even talk some. That tends to go badly and if not badly, well, it’s still not usually _good_.

“All kinds’a shit happens at these _parties_ ,” Spark says. “I fuckin’ hate ‘em, but sometimes you gotta do ‘em.”

“I don’t really want to,” Will says. The more he thinks about it, the more he _definitely_ doesn’t want to.

“You and me both,” Spark says. “Needs must though. Finish up your food and we can walk on over to Mack’s.”

Will snorts. Of course Mack’s not even going to bother picking them up for this party; they have to walk the four or five blocks over to his place to even catch their ride.

He puts his half-eaten supper aside and picks up his coffee. “I’m done,” he says.

Spark stands up with a nod then looks at Will again, studying him. Will can see the worry in his eyes. He doesn’t want Will to go, he can tell that, but they have no choice here. It seems like that’s the case a lot of the time. If Mack says to do it, they have to do it. If the tricks want them to do it, they (usually) have to do it. If they don’t work, they don’t eat or have a place to live. Easy as that. 

“It’ll be okay,” Spark says like he’s reassuring Will or himself or both, maybe.

“Of course it will be,” Will says. He can lie about this to make Spark feel a little better at least.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They all ride in Mack’s old Pontiac Bonneville. It’s been well taken care of and just by looking at it, it’s obvious Mack has put a lot of money into the car. It’s all glossy black paint and chrome accents and black leather interior that smells like Armor-All and cigarette smoke. The windows are heavily tinted and Will’s view of Chicago is significantly dimmed to only the brightest of lights and even they have a faintly lavender hue to them because of the tint. This is what the 60% Mack takes has paid for. Will and Spark live in the Del Mar and shop at the Goodwill so they can pay for Mack’s toys. Angel, David and Stevie live who knows where, but their places probably aren’t much better than Spark’s and Will’s. They probably shop at Goodwill and thrift stores, too. For this. This is what they work for.

Will finds himself resentful of the fact and wanting more money so maybe he can have a tricked out Bonneville or maybe a shirt that’s not bought secondhand. He doesn’t have long to think about it though before Mack announces, “We have arrived, bitches.”

Will leans over Spark to see through the windshield, which isn’t as heavily tinted as the other windows. The house is big, set back from the main road with a fence and a gate. Probably an old family estate since they’re not in the city itself, they’ve driven outside of it into an upscale suburb of some kind. This place lies on the very edge of it, well removed from any of the other homes. Given the age and majesty of this place, Will knows it was here first; has been here for decades longer most likely. The subdivision with all of its McMansions grew up around it, the land sold off by the family to further line their coffers. There’s plenty of land left for the old house though so it may sit on its hill and look down at all the other pretenders that try to equal its old-style grandiosity and pretension.

Whoever owns this house and their friends paid for streetwalkers. Rich people are spoiled more often than not and very much used to having their own way. Low-end prostitutes can’t complain as much, Will remembers. They don’t have as much say in what they will and won’t do simply because they cannot afford to do so. As they say, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Open the door, man, so we can get out,” Spark says. He elbows Will gently to get his attention. He sat in the middle to keep Angel away from Will and Will is now master of the door. He is tempted to refuse, to tell Spark it’s probably best they stay right where they are.

He opens the door after giving Spark a quick, worried look. When they get out, Spark squeezes his shoulder and tells him, “Just go with it.”

“With what?”

“Whatever.”

Will doesn’t like that anymore than he likes not having a choice in being bought and paid for by rich men so he can be a fuck toy for a few hours. A fuck toy with even less of a voice than some of the other fuck toys out there. He’s a fuck toy that can’t complain. Will hates the term “fuck toy”, but there’s not a better one for this, for him and the rest of them, than that.

Inside, the house is done up like a nightclub, at least the foyer and great room. Black lights burn and a strobe light winks and flashes with automatic, cheap lightning. Colored lights from somewhere spin and paint the walls with a rainbow of colors in different designs. Music hums and thumps from hidden speakers and subwoofers, the bass so heavy he can feel it in his chest. None of this is done cheaply and it only serves to make Will more uneasy.

A man greets them at the door with a smile. He’s stripped to the waist and sweaty, a little out breath, like he’s been dancing. He takes Mack aside and they talk, Will sees him pass a wad of money to Mack that Will is sure he will skim more than 60% off of. He shows Mack something else, Will sees him hold out his hand and Mack takes that something from him, but he’s turned now so Will can’t quite make it out. He sees Mack nod though, seemingly satisfied with whatever it is.

Mack comes back to the little group while the shirtless man waits, eyes raking over all of them appraisingly. They all smile and bat their eyes, Stevie pulls his already cropped shirt up a little more, flashing his thin chest at the man. Spark winks at him and flashes that sharp smile of his, except it’s not real this time. Will knows that, but the man doesn’t and he seems to like what he sees. Angel conveniently realizes his shoe is untied and for some reason, he needs to turn around to re-tie it, giving the man a nice view of his ass in his skin-tight jeans with rips under each cheek.

David doesn’t do anything more than confer with Mack. He’s moving up the totem pole, he’s not working this party like the four of them are. No, he’s working security with Mack, at least mostly so. They talked some on the ride over and agreed that if anyone wanted David specifically, he’d go with them—extra cash is extra cash—but otherwise, he’s to keep an eye on things with Mack. They’re both armed, Will can tell it from the way they walk and the fact they’re wearing light coats even though it’s hot.

Then there’s Will and he just stands there, taking it all in with his eyes maybe a bit too wide and shoulders a lot too tense. He meets the stranger’s eyes and stares at him until he feels a quick, hard poke on his lower back. Will turns to look at Spark and sees the barely there shake of his head: _Quit bein’ weird._

It’s only then that Will manages to smile, to try for flirtatious and wanton like the others. It’s too late though and the man has already pinned him down and examined him with a gaze as thorough and even more intrusive than any touch. By standing out in such a way, Will has brought attention to himself and piqued someone’s curiosity. It’s not exactly a compliment and he wishes he was better at blending in with the rest of them. It may save him from being singled out as often as he is.

Spark keeps his hand on Will’s lower back, the touch so faint it’s more _implied_ than actually there. He can sense the warmth and soft pressure on his shirt though in the way the fabric shifts. He’s not alone and Spark, he reminds himself, will help him if he falls down.

Mack comes over to them a couple of minutes later. A quick glance at his watch tells Will that they really have only been here about 8 minutes. He feels like they’ve been standing here for hours and already, he wants to leave.

“Take these, the client wants you all to have a good time and this is a good time right here,” Mack says. He passes out whatever it is the “client” gave him to be approved when they first arrived.

It’s a little white pill with a question mark stamped in the center, front and back. Will has no idea what it is and doesn’t really want to take it. Everyone else, even Spark, pops theirs with a smile—they genuinely seem glad to have the stuff. Will’s taken one strange pill already at Mack’s party and ended up giving the whole room a free show. He doesn’t want to repeat that.

“What is this?” he asks Spark.

“X,” Spark says. “It’s not that bad, it’s actually kinda fun and the high don’t last that long… maybe two hours, I guess. Little longer, little shorter, depending on what type it is.”

“X as in _ecstasy_?” Will asks.

“Yep,” Spark says.

“I… I don’t know, after that night at Mack’s…” Will says.

Spark studies Will, sees his hesitation and nods because he knows how much Will hates what happened that night. Mack is watching them and his crystal sharp eyes are starting to narrow. It’s time to get this show on the road and Will, as usual, is holding up progress.

“This’ll be alright,” Spark says. “I don’t know _what_ that was David gave you, but it wasn’t X. I think he fuckin’ roofied you or somethin’. Asshole.”

He runs his hand down Will’s arm to his hand where the pill is cupped in his palm and Will turns his hand, dumping it into Spark’s palm. Will watches him in the bad light and when Spark cups his chin in his hand, lightly applying pressure with his fingertips along Will’s jaw, he opens his mouth. Spark smiles at him and Will feels everyone’s eyes on them now, some hungry, others curious and all waiting to see what’ll happen.

“You wanna be high for this,” Spark says, leaning close to whisper it in Will’s ear, leaving it up to everyone to wonder what he’s saying.

Will closes his eyes and swallows, feels the warm wash of Spark’s breath across his ear. He takes it because it’s the best he can get, Spark helping him ease into this by providing a touch of a free show, something meant to whet the appetites of their hosts. As the pill, bittersweet and chemical, touches his tongue, Will closes his mouth and swallows, pretending for a moment that no one else is there.

Then it’s time to open his eyes and move further into the house, to meet the rest of their hosts and the moment is gone. Will blinks his eyes open to the nightclub lit reality he lives in and moves from the foyer to the great room.

Let the party begin.

~*~*~*~*~*~

At first things are a little slow for Will at least. He finds a chair and sits down in it. He endures the casual touches of the eight other strangers and even manages to smile and make some small talk. He watches David suck someone off right inside the entryway not long after they’ve entered the great room. He does it with military efficiency, getting the guy off in about five minutes flat. David is all business when he’s working, no flirting, no talking; he just goes right to work. The Army taught him well, Will supposes. His dog tags glitter and wink dully in the flash of the strobe light.

He watches Spark disappear into some room off the side of the one they’re in. The doorway has been draped with a black curtain, but Will’s guess is it’s probably a small office or library. He still feels his heart sink a bit, feels a tiny twist of what he can only call jealousy in his gut. He is reminded once again why it’s such a bad idea for him to pursue anything more than a platonic relationship with Spark. Spark comes back about fifteen minutes later, zipping his pants with one hand and giving his mouth a surreptitious swipe before drifting back into the room at large. His shirt has been left behind the black curtain, not something he’s going to really need tonight. He gives Will a quick glance and smile to let him know all is well and then some man is touching his shoulder and whispering in his ear.

Will feels a little sick to his stomach and the music seems louder, deeper, like it’s in his bone marrow. Like it is a part of him. He begins to feel the music in a way he didn’t before and as he watches Stevie giving someone the world’s most unskilled lap dance, Will begins to smile.

Fifteen minutes after that, Will is in love with the whole world, damn near it. He just wants to hug _everyone_. The next man that touches him gets a genuine smile and Will touches him back. When he asks Will to dance, Will gets up out of his chair with no hesitation—he wants to move, he wants to feel the music slide over his skin. He can feel the thump of the bass in the air, stirring it up in pond ripple waves, pulses of noise that get inside his head and tell his feet what to do. He holds onto the man, who looks a bit like a banker to him and when he grinds against Will, he grinds right back. He kisses Will’s neck and Will lets him do it, tipping his head back to feel his burning lips sear his already hot skin even deeper.

Will learns everyone’s design quicker than he’s ever learned them before. Even the bad things seem to radiate a beautiful glow and if he could, he’d touch and caress all of it. He wants to be sad and upset about some of the things he learns, like the one man who beats his wife because she’s not what he really wants. She doesn’t understand that though and so her confusion is driving her mad most likely. Her confusion and her pain. Will thinks she probably really loves him and never understands what she’s done so wrong. That may just be supposition though, she’s not here for Will to observe. He even frowns about these things, but he cannot be sad right now, the white question mark won’t permit it. Will is actually grateful for it because this, all of this, would be sensory overload otherwise.

Halfway through his dance with the banker-type, the man from the entryway cuts in. Not long after that, he’s leaning back on the couch while that man sucks his cock. Will’s got his head turned at an awkward angle and there’s a latex covered dick in his mouth, too. This is unity, he thinks as he bobs his head and tries very hard not to scrape the man’s penis with his teeth; this angle practically invites it, so he has to be careful. He doesn’t know this man other than he’s seen him around.

The banker-type he danced with is off behind the black curtain with Angel. Will doesn’t know where Spark is, but the last he saw Stevie, he was bent over the back of another couch in the room, getting fucked. He’d been beating the cushions under his hands, yelling, “Yes! Yes! Fuck my ass!” Will wonders if he was faking it, but if Stevie feels as good as he does, probably-maybe not. Mack and David are shadows lurking around the edges of everything.

When he comes, he can’t say he’s ever had an orgasm quite like it. He feels like everything is made of light, that _he_ is filled with it. He is in love with that, too, as much as he is everything else. The men are gone as soon as it’s over, one last lick of a tongue on his dick and a caress of fingers through his sweaty hair and Will is alone and boneless. Spark slides into view a few minutes later and tells him to put himself back together. Will rouses himself enough to do so. He takes the condom off his now limp dick, ties it off and when he can’t find anywhere to throw it away, he simply drops it behind the sofa. No one will ever find it there, he tells himself.

“Hey,” he says to Spark almost as an afterthought. He grins at him.

“Hey yourself,” Spark says. He runs his fingers through Will’s hair. Will shivers and touches Spark’s flat belly in return. His skin is smooth and warm under his palm. “Everything okay?” Spark asks as he starts to rub Will’s neck.

Will groans with pleasure and says, “Yes. Everything is just so… so… _beautiful_. I can see all of it and it doesn’t make me feel bad at all.”

“Good,” Spark says. “I was hoping that. Things are pretty shiny aren’t they? It’s like… I dunno. I realize now that I don’t hate Stevie, I just don’t, ya know, _understand_ him. Tomorrow, I think… yeah… I think I’m gonna like… be nice to him and be his friend.”

“You’re my best friend,” Will says. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those before.”

“How do you know, dude? You don’t remember anything,” Spark says with a laugh.

Will grins. “I know, I know. It is so _fucked up_ , right?” He laughs about it. Spark’s fingers feel great against the muscles in his neck. Will licks Spark’s belly, wanting to taste his skin and the light inside of him.

“Pretty fucked up, yeah, but we’ve uh… established that,” Spark says. “It’s cool though, right? I mean… it’s better and prettier now.”

“Yeah,” Will says. “I don’t even miss myself like I sometimes almost do. I still don’t wanna go back, ya know. I could find myself, like… ask a cop or something for help, but I don’t wanna… I don’t know. Know, I think, is what I don’t wanna do. If it’s ugly I just… _Yeah_.”

“Uh-huh,” Spark agrees, like what Will’s just said makes perfect sense.

It does, too, because they’re all so _connected_. They don’t even need words. Spark loves him right now, Will knows that and it makes him even happier. Will tries to hang onto him when someone comes along and taps Spark’s shoulder, asking for a few minutes in the black curtain room. Will doesn’t want him to go, but then someone else is tapping Will on the shoulder and saying he wants some time with him in another room. So, they go their separate ways once again and after a few seconds, Will is okay with that because they’ll see one another again.

Two minutes after that, he’s snorting something off a small travel mirror the man who tapped his shoulder offers him. Will feels like his head is going to explode and his heartbeat pounds in his back teeth in time with the thumping bass of yet another song that’s different, but is also the same and it’s goddamned _fantastic_. Will is full of love and rampant enthusiasm for everything now. He’s pretty sure he could take over the world.

“What is that?” Will asks as he bounces his knees. He feels like he could run and run and run _forever_. The idea makes him smile.

“This is Tina,” the man says as he lowers his head to snort a line for himself. “She’s my best girl.”

“She’s really nice,” Will says. His heart goes, _Boom! Boom! BOOM!_ It’s a nice compliment to the music and the way the bass trembles in his blood.

“She really is, yeah,” the man says.

His jaw muscles clench as he grinds his teeth. Will watches it in the blue light from the lamps that have replaced the regular bulbs. Everything is painted cold, like ice and snow and mountain streams. He feels the light on his skin though and it’s warm like sunlight and kisses.

Will’s still watching him when he pushes him back on the bed that’s been set up in here, in what looks like a small sitting room, maybe what was once called a fainting room. Will goes without complaint, without tension or worry—he wants this, he’s horny as hell now. Before, he could manage, but his good feelings weren’t about _sex_. They were just about _togetherness_. Now he wants this, now he wants to be rode hard and put up wet to wait for the next customer. He can feel his pulse quicken a few beats more as Tina’s juices drip down the back of his throat with a flavor like battery acid. It burns all the way down as Will’s pants are jerked open with quick, jittery flicks of stoned fingers. He lifts his hips to ease the progress along.

Will fucks like a pro. He eggs the man on, words coming out of his mouth that he wouldn’t normally say. He calls him a motherfucker and tells him, “Do me harder.” The man laughs and does just that, fingers digging black bruises into the soft skin of his hips. Will arches and shudders at the pain he can just barely feel beneath the humming static of the drugs.

He curses, holds to the man’s shoulders and matches his rhythm as he pants. He sounds like someone else, someone who belongs in this world. He is possessed by Tina’s brilliance. She makes him forget he is Will No Name, afraid of dreams about blank pages and always wondering who he was. She makes him belong at last. He grinds his teeth and bites the inside of his cheek, straining against the pleasure beating like a drum under his too-tight skin. He comes and thinks of dying stars and how the universe will one day collapse on itself like he is doing right this second.

Life has never felt this _easy_ before.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The night drags on and Will drinks whatever is shoved into his hand, which is also thankfully some water and Gatorade that Spark makes him drink. He finds his new friend from the black curtained fainting room and takes another taste of Tina. She is fey and techno liquid bright in his veins. She makes his eyes glassy and when he begins to itch, he scratches without thought because _it feels so good_. He makes his way into the first room he noticed, the one Spark disappeared into and he’s on his knees with a dick in his mouth and another in his ass and he _wants it all_. He’s panting and sweating, sticky with it and all he wants is to be fucked harder.

Back outside, in the nightclub that is usually a nice and respectable upper crust domicile, everything is a blur of light and sound and movement and Will melts into it. Someone offers him half a question mark, says it’ll help him ride it all out better and he takes it gladly. The question is the answer is the gateway to the warmth of love that takes the ugliness from the designs.

Spark grabs him sometime or another, snatching him away from Angel who’s whispering in Will’s ear words that are not words, really. “What else did you take?” Spark asks him.

He pets Will’s face and Will pets him back. It’s nicest of all to touch Spark, to be allowed to touch Spark. He can go and do whatever he wants with these men, without a qualm or bad feeling about himself or them because he _wants_ it. His libido is in overdrive and the dopamine cascading through his brain is a waterfall of flowing neon light, ribbons of it twisting through his brain and elevating him higher and higher. Even with all of that, Spark is still the best—better—than all of the others combined.

“Um… Oh,” Will says. He grinds his teeth and smiles, the look like a grimace because of the way he has his teeth clenched. “I met _Tina_. She’s _so amazing_.” He stops and thinks for a second and then grins. “Do you want to meet her? You should really meet her, I bet you’d like her. She’s like having electricity in your veins. Static and lightning and… and… and _everything_.”

“No,” Spark says. “You shouldn’t’a done that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Will snaps at him, suddenly belligerent. “No, you don’t. I’ve _got this_ , so don’t you try to… to… _boss me_ , okay?”

There is a sober voice, tinny and far away in the back of his mind, that tells him he’s being childish. Tina and the question marks talk way louder though, they talk _over_ that little voice in the back of his mind. Will thinks about listening to it, but that voice is such a fucking _downer_ that he decides to just let Tina and the Question Mark have the stage. “The Question Mark” sounds like a cool band name to Will, now that he’s considering it, so he titles it in his mind. _Play on, play on…_

“I’m not tryin’ to tell you what to do, man,” Spark says.

He’s got his fingers in Will’s hair and Will is so in love with him it aches faintly in his belly and his chest. He can’t stay mad at Spark for long at all.

“Okay, I forgive you,” Will says.

He smiles at Spark, suddenly feeling the love and happiness again. Maybe Tina’s kind of fickle, but he doesn’t know. Will is a little irritable and high strung himself. His eyes dart around the room, wobbly-wobbly, but then they settle. He sees Mack talking to the guy from the entryway, the guy that sucked Will off earlier. Will waves at them and Mack gives him a funny look. It’s so funny that Will laughs out loud.

“Thanks, man, I don’t want hard feelings or nothin’,” Spark says. “It’s, ya know, not fun that way and I just… I don’t wanna be mad. I only say stuff ‘cause I care and all.”

“I know,” Will says. “It’s okay. I like that you care, it’s nice—nice that someone cares.”

Someone walks by Spark and runs their fingers through his hair. It’s long since come loose from its thick braid and falls all around him, snarled in places, but mostly hanging like black silk that just brushes the backs of his thighs. Will isn’t the only person who thinks Spark is beautiful, he knows that because Spark _is_ beautiful. He only ended up being what he is because for a 15 year old runaway, that was his only option. By the time he was old enough to maybe try and do more, he’d fallen into the pattern, the routine and his life’s course was set, unfortunately.

It’s likely the same for Stevie, who probably paid for his trip from Maine to Chicago by laying on his back or getting on his knees. He can’t be more than 19 years old now, but maybe he’s 21 at least. Angel is local, but was poor and did the only thing a poor boy with a pretty face could do in his situation. David, Will doesn’t know, but he would probably be homeless if he hadn’t turned to this life. That’s how Uncle Sam repays a lot of his soldiers—by forgetting about them and letting the dogs have their bodies.

Mack though, he found all of them and Mack’s design is to make a name for himself in this business. Eventually, Mack is going to take them all the way to the top because he has the best taste and the best management skills. He may fuck his boys, but he also takes care of them the best he can. Will feels sudden, overwhelming gratitude and loyalty for Mack. He even loves him now. Mack will one day be more than a low-brow street pimp, he really will one day be the owner of his own escort service. Will has absolute faith in that because Mack is the man of the hour of the day of the…

He loses his train of thought when a song comes on that makes him want to dance. He has Spark for a little while and wants to take advantage of that. Mack is still talking to the entryway guy and another has joined them now, one Will hasn’t “officially” met. He knows no one’s name because there are no names here at all.

Angel is lazily fucking the man Will sucked earlier while Tina’s owner fucks Angel. Stevie is being fucked by the man Angel is fucking, while another man behind Tina’s owner fucks him. They’re on the edge of what qualifies as the dance floor and Will takes a minute to stare at them with wide eyes. It’s like a human chain right there, all sweat and moans and grunts and hard cocks.

Then he forgets that, too, because he remembers the song and wow, he is having a hard time keeping his train of thought on track. But Will grabs Spark, slips his arms around his waist finally and says, “Dance with me?”

“Yeah, sure, Will No Name,” Spark says. He smiles at him and then they’re moving, sliding together and this… _this_ is the best part of the whole thing.

They almost finish their dance, but Mack comes over with David and the two guys he was talking to earlier. “They want you for some private time,” he says to Will.

Before Will can ask any of the questions that automatically spring to the tip of his tongue, Mack turns to Spark and says, “You’re goin’ in with him to make sure things stay on the up and up. David’s gonna be outside the door and if you need help, holler. Make sure you’re in last, I don’t want ‘em slippin’ around and tryin’ to lock us out. Are you sober enough to manage that shit?”

He waits for Spark to nod and then takes a moment to study Will who blinks at him. He really does wonder what the people want private time with him for, but then he figures it’s okay, this is a good night.

“Hi,” Will says.

Mack gives him a narrow-eyed look and then raises an eyebrow. “How loaded are you?” Mack asks.

Will thinks for a second and then says, “Very.” He’s high and drunk, but no so high or drunk he doesn’t _know_ he is. Or maybe he knows it because he is so very bombed. He doesn’t think he’ll pass out standing up tonight though and that’s nice.

“Can you still fuck?”

“Yeah,” Will says. Just saying it sparks his libido, which he had kind of not been thinking about, aside from the fact he’s had half-wood since doing more Tina earlier. “I can fuck all night.”

“The fuck are you on?” Mack asks.

“Crank,” Spark answers for him.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Will says, waving his hands wildly in the air with a touch of that former belligerence. His hands feel kind of shaky now, like he’s got caffeine jitters. “Her name is _Tina_.”

“Well, her nickname is crank,” Spark says.

Mack laughs and slaps Will on the shoulder. “I don’t give a fuck what her name is, if you can still spread then you’re good, so go the hell on. They’re waiting with David by the stairs.”

Will wonders what may happen next and goes along quite happily, Spark following along behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Upstairs is dimly lit, but this is a very rich house and the subtle lighting does nothing to hide that. The room they end up in has a massive bed and there is more music playing, something with a darker sound to it, but with just as much bass that shakes within the eerie distortions. There are lamps set on end tables and the dresser and they all have red bulbs in them. Will thinks he’s walked into Lucifer’s bedchamber in hell. That is a very interesting thought and he thinks it quite seriously while the two men undress him and kiss him all over until they distract him and he starts touching back.

Spark stands by and watches them and Will watches him until his eyes slip closed and he tips his head back, offering his throat to these strangers. They step away only long enough to undress, which doesn’t take long since all they’re wearing is pants. Then they lead Will to the bed and he goes. They lay him down and finger him wide open until he’s panting and cursing, pulse beating in his throat. They spread their fingers inside of him until the stretch burns and it feels good to Will. That is Mr. Business’s doing, he thinks—no, he knows.

The men are paying the utmost attention to Will and his body, touching and licking and fingering him until it’s driving him mad almost because it’s not quite enough. They aren’t doing what Mr. Business does though, no. Will has time to think that they’re doing all of this to _make sure_ , but make sure of what, Will has no idea.

Spark is sitting with his back against the headboard and he keeps his fingers steadily combing through Will’s hair as he moans and sweats on the great big bed.

Finally, they seem satisfied and the entryway guy makes Will move long enough that he can lay down in his place. He is already wearing a condom and he moves to pass one to Will for him to put on, but then he seems to change his mind. His smile is extra devilish in the red, red light. Everything is hellish and bloody and the red makes Will’s eyes feel like they are throbbing. He can see it even when he closes them.

“You put it on him,” the man says to Spark.

Spark shrugs and takes the condom, opening it and rolling the latex down Will’s cock with a quick, light touch. Will’s hips stutter towards that faint, brief touch and he moans, but then it’s gone and he’s being told to ride the man’s cock. So, he does as he’s told and it feels good, so good and he’s losing himself in it until he becomes aware of the other man behind him. His rhythm falters as he looks over his shoulder at him then at Spark who is frowning, like he knows something now that Will doesn’t.

“What—” Will starts to ask, but the man behind him tells him to be quiet. He even says please and smiles.

Will is made to lean down further, as close to the man beneath him as he can get and then the other one moves up against his back. He feels claustrophobic, sweat breaking out on his skin in huge drops as his heart trip-stutters in his chest. He can’t see the other man, can’t see what he’s doing and then though he _feels_ and his next exhalation comes out as a choked off whimper.

He’s pushing inside of him while the other man’s cock is still there. It’s stretching him tight-tight-tight and it _hurts_ , even with the drugs and Mr. Business’s programming, it _hurts_. And yet, it also feels good, although this is an ache that allows Will the misfortune of knowing better than his brain’s lie. Will whimpers and tries to get away, tries to say no, but they shush him some more.

The one behind him passes the one beneath him something and then he hears, “Breathe in,” and opens his eyes enough to be aware of something under his nose.

Will doesn’t like this, this is so off the rails from what he is used to and he didn’t _know_ this was going to happen. No one told him, not either of the men and not Mack and he _knew_ , Will knows he did. This is what “private time” translates to, he realizes. This is private because it takes time and is messy and they need room and privacy for it all to work out. He’s nearly panicking, Tina has turned on him and he’s learning what the downside of her up is. It’s not nice, he feels sweaty and anxious and shaky on the inside. Will is trapped here with two cocks vying for space inside of his one body and he breathes in without thinking because maybe it will be easier if he does.

Time… slows… down the second it hits his brain and he feels like miles of knots are being released all along his body. He is aware of the second one pushing inside of him, shoving inexorably onward and he grits his teeth then grinds them. It’s easier, not as painful, but it’s _alien_ all the same. He can feel both of them inside of him, still now and pressed against one another. He’s scared, this is new and _no one told him_. He is aware that he is also still hard and the pressure, the way he is being filled, makes even the slightest shift from any of them rub along his prostate with pressure that is almost too intense.

He forces his eyes open, seeking some kind of comfort and finds Spark. Without thinking about it, Will reaches for him and Spark takes his hand, lacing his fingers with his. He moves so he’s sitting closer, so Will doesn’t have to stretch his arm as far.

“Close your eyes,” Spark says, leaning in to whisper it to Will. He kisses his sweaty temple. “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.” He squeezes Will’s fingers again and Will only nods the best he can then does what Spark says.

It’s not long after that they begin to move inside him and he grunts with it, the sounds forced out of his throat until it is raw. They have him breathe whatever it is in the little vial a couple more times and it does make things much easier for a few minutes at least. They have to stop several times—it feels like _thousands_ of times—so the one behind Will can push back inside of him. It hurts anew every single time, but that unrelenting pressure builds and builds inside of him as well. It’s slow and steady, no one able to move much and Will really can’t move at all. He’s not just a fuck toy now, he is a fuck doll.

At one point, he does open his eyes again and only then does he see the mirror that runs the entire length of the wall alongside the bed. In it he sees Spark and the two men who are fucking him, he sees their cocks as they move in and out of his body. He sees the way they are watching themselves in the mirror, smiling and determined to do this, fulfilling some dream they’ve probably had for ages. Will sees himself, a sweaty wreck of a man with his hair snarled all over his face and eyes like black holes in the red light. He is no one. He is nothing. He is nothing at all.

Then Spark moves to block his view and twists his body around to look into Will’s eyes. Will watches him right back until Spark tells him to close his eyes again.

When he comes, he does so with a startled scream that tears out of his throat. It feels like rubies shattering under his skin and velvet teeth chewing through his belly. It feels like it will never end, like it won’t stop until it has poisoned him. He tries to buck and jerk with it, but there is no room, so he lies between the two men and shiver-trembles with the awful pleasure of it. His mind goes wonderfully blank for a little while after that, but not for long enough. They keep fucking him until he’s almost in agony because of the oversensitivity of his body. When they do come, one of them slaps his ass really hard, but Will barely feels it. He never lets go of Spark’s hand and Spark never even makes a sound when Will holds onto him so tightly he knows it has to hurt, but he can’t make himself let go.

“You’re done, now get out of him,” Spark says to the two men.

“Sure, sure,” they say, happy to comply.

Will makes a choked, cracked sound of pain when the one behind him moves off him. Spark helps him move off the other one and with that comes another raspy sound of pain. He feels like he has no bones, he’s just one over stimulated and abused nerve ending.

He hears the smack of flesh on flesh and doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that they have high-fived one another. _Well done! Congratulations!_ He makes a soft sound of disgust and tries to find a comfortable position. He can feel how open he is, how messy from all the lube and it makes him shiver. It’s uncomfortable just about every way he tries until he curls himself into a ball. He is aware of something soft and warm falling all around him and finally realizes it’s a blanket.

“Spark?” he croaks.

“Yeah?”

“What is that?”

“Some fuzzy thing off a chair over in the corner,” Spark says. His voice is right behind Will.

Will grunts something and then sighs when Spark curls up behind him, holding him close. “I want to go home,” Will says.

“I know you do and I want to take you home, but the party ain’t over yet,” Spark says. He kisses the back of Will’s head and gently rubs his belly where the muscles are shivering and hurting faintly.

“Thank you for not letting me go,” Will says.

“Somebody’s gotta hold onto you, Will No Name,” Spark says.

When Will grabs for his hand again, Spark takes it and when he begins to shake silently, Spark doesn’t say anything like he usually would. It all breaks inside of Will and Spark stays with him while it does. He just rests his cheek against the back of Will’s shoulder and lets him have this one.

They fall quiet after that and Will doesn’t sleep, but he lets himself drift until a lot of the pain has dissipated. It’s not gone, but it’s moved further away for now at least and he’s content with that.

“There’s a bathroom in here,” Spark says sometime later. “Door’s open a crack and I saw the sink when we came in. Let’s clean up some before they run us outta here.”

Will mutters his acknowledgement and then nods. Spark has to help him, his legs threaten to give and his mind spins as the pain all wakes up again. “Ow,” Will says as they move across the room.

“I know it hurts, I know,” Spark says. “The warm water’ll help some though.”

He gets Will in the big bathtub and helps him clean up since his hands are shaking so badly. “No one told me they were going to do that,” Will says to him.

“They usually don’t,” Spark says. “They talk to Mack about those kinds’a extras and then Mack just okays the shit without lettin’ us know what the fuck.”

“Have you ever done that?” Will asks.

“No, but I done other shit I ain’t been real thrilled to be doin’,” Spark says. “Like some seriously sick shit necrophile stuff this one time where these two fuckin’ _psychos_ made me lay in a tub full of ice until my lips turned blue. Then one fucked me while the other watched. When that was over, the other had me lay in ice _again_ and then fuck him.”

“That’s twisted,” Will says. “So, one wanted to fuck the dead and the other wanted to be fucked _by_ the dead?”

“No shit and yeah, pretty much,” Spark says as he wipes the sticky sweat off Will’s face. “I ain’t even gonna talk about the goddamned cowboys and Indians shit some other fuckers pulled. They put _feathers_ in my hair.”

“I’m sorry,” Will says. He is still full of empathy, which is usually the case, but not quite like this. He’d be sorry anyway though because now he knows what it’s like to be less than a person and be a fuck _doll_ instead.

“You didn’t do it,” Spark says. Then he holds his hands down for Will to take. “My spidey sense is tinglin’, we need to be done quick now. Mack’ll be huntin’ us for sure. David’s prolly still standin’ around, he checked in after they left and said he’d leave us for a bit though.”

“How nice of him,” Will says. He snorts softly and starts toweling himself off the best he can. “You know though, the fucked up truth of it is that it _is_ nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Spark says. “I know. Sometimes you don’t even get that much courtesy from pimps and their thugs.”

“You mean _managers_ and their _assistants_ ,” Will corrects. He actually smiles and that doesn’t hurt, which is really great.

Spark laughs. “Right, that’s it. Musta slipped my mind is all.”

Spark takes the last of the little time they have—it’s only been a half hour since the two men left, Spark tells him when he asks—to clean up some as well. He thought it had been at least a day, the way his mind was drifting and dodging around. Though, obviously, that was pretty stupid of him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Back downstairs, the party is still going, but is finally starting to wind down. There’s a lot of teeth grinding and clumsy petting and dancing, but not much else. Will hangs back with Spark and watches from what he hopes is the safety of the shadows. He takes Spark’s hand in his again and Spark holds it, offering more comfort while he smokes with his free hand.

A couple of souls are still lively though and one of them spies Spark and Will. He comes over and loops an arm around Spark’s naked waist and leads him away. Will watches him go, watches how Spark lets his arm stretch out behind him so Will can hold to his hand for as long as is possible.

The distance stretches between them until it snaps like a rubber band and Will lets his arm fall back limply at his side. It’s a glaring reminder of why it’s all such a bad idea; this night has been full of them, but the metaphor of this last time is the one that hurts the most. Once Spark’s gone, Will is alone with his thoughts and jangling nerves and goes in search of Tina’s keeper once more.

By the time Spark comes back, Will’s scratching the side of his neck and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Spark takes one look at him and says, “Leave that shit alone, Will.”

“No, not right now, not tonight, _nuh-uh_ ,” Will says. His voice is a rapid click-clip of sound, coming from his mouth like a machine gun blast. “Maybe later though, sure, yeah, I can do that. _Later_.”

Spark nods and leans against the wall beside him and chews a piece of gum, one hand lazily trailing up and down the silk wallpaper. His last question mark is wearing off and he looks tired all over. Will would suggest he pay a visit to Tina for a pick-me-up, but Spark would just shoot him down. He’s difficult like that.

Will only has to perform once more that night. One of the men approaches him and gestures at his cock. “I haven’t tried you yet,” he says. “I’ve heard you’re amazing.”

“Thank you,” Will says between his clenched teeth. He wants to _cause a scene_ , but he won’t let himself do that. No, he won’t, but he _wants_ to. Instead, he chokes it down and obediently sinks to his knees despite his discomfort and does his fucking job.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When they leave it’s late, but still dark out, dawn a few hours away yet. Will is wired, he is a 220 line and he hums with it. Mack drops them off first and tells them to take a day off, they earned it. He sounds proud and Spark looks like he wants to punch him, but he just takes the money Mack offers him. It’s a thick, rolled up wad of cash and Will’s payday comes next. His wad is even thicker.

“You earned yourself a hell of a bonus tonight,” Mack says. “You did good.”

“I can’t believe you let those guys do that to him,” Spark says. “You coulda at least warned him or told him or somethin’. He freaked out, man.”

“His ass belongs to _me_ ,” Mack says, jabbing a finger at Spark. “If I say that they can put two dicks in it then that’s my call; not yours and not his. Same goes for all of you and you know that, Spark. So, shut the fuck up about it.”

“It was shit, man and you know it,” Spark says. “He’s fucked up right now, but he ain’t gonna be able to move come tomorrow.”

Will bounces in place and looks between the two of them as he scratches a new itchy spot on his shoulder with OCD-level studiousness.

“Only reason you give a shit is ‘cause he’s your little boyfriend,” Mack says with a snort. “Otherwise you wouldn’t care how he got his ass fucked.”

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Will offers. “He won’t date me. It’d be a very unhealthy relationship.”

“Go inside, Will,” Spark says, fairly snapping it at him. “Or keep your mouth shut.”

Mack laughs though. “Aww, ain’t that sweet,” he says. “He’s got it bad for you, Spark.”

“He ain’t got nothin’ but a few loose screws and fuck ton of crank in his system,” Spark says. “You know as well as I do what all that shit does.”

“Yeah, yeah, you keep tellin’ yourself that,” Mack says. “Take a day, like I said then get back out there.”

“Two days,” Spark says. “Give him two days.”

Mack considers and then nods. “Yeah, alright, two days. You can take ‘em with him. You two can _cuddle_ or somethin’ sweet like that.”

“Fuck you, Mack,” Will says cheerfully. He grinds his teeth and entertains the idea of biting Mack’s face.

“Will!” Spark says. “Hush!”

Mack’s eyes narrow and he looks pissed, but then it’s gone and he laughs again. “You boys have a nice vacation,” he says. He throws his idling car in reverse and starts backing up, hanging his hand out the window to flip them the bird.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Spark asks him as Mack drives away. “He gave us two days off and you fuckin’ insulted him.”

“We still have our days,” Will points out, first and foremost. “I insulted him, if that’s what you want to call it, because he was being an asshole.”

“Mack’s _always_ an asshole,” Spark says as he takes Will’s hand away from his shoulder. They’ve both lost their shirts, but given how hot it is tonight, it hardly seems to matter and it’s not like men wear shirts at the Del Mar very often. Or pants for that matter, sometimes. “You made yourself bleed. Stop picking or you’re gonna be covered in sores later.”

“I _have_ to though,” Will says. “Have to, have to, have to. It feels so nice, too and it makes the itching crawl stop.”

Spark nods and still swats his hand away when it starts creeping back to his shoulder. “Let’s go inside, I’m hot, I’m tired and I want a goddamned shower like yesterday,” Spark says.

“I need one of those, too,” Will says. “I got dirty again and— Oh! I need to brush my teeth. I definitely should do that. I’m going to do that.”

He squeezes in the door as soon as Spark has it open, accidentally shoving him out of the way. Spark curses and comes in behind him while Will goes to brush his teeth. He’s still brushing away, spitting bloody foam into the sink, when Spark comes in and makes him stop.

“You are so fucked up,” Spark says. He is not referring to the fact that Will has forgotten everything about himself this time.

“High. As. A. Mother. Fucking. Kite,” Will says very slowly, words clipped and sharp through his impeccably clean teeth. The words hum in his bleeding gums.

“Uh-huh,” Spark says. “Man, don’t go away on me, alright? You like drugs, I ain’t blind, you know. I see it every time you get your hands on somethin’. The heroin, the crank, the X… all of it. Don’t let ‘em take you, alright? I lived out here doin’ this shit since I’s fifteen fuckin’ years old and I’ve seen _so many_ people get lost to that shit and I…” He huffs out a breath and goes to the closet, opens it and gets the leftovers of the Canadian LTD that’s been hanging out there since that night. It’s about half full and Will looks at it with bright-eyed interest.

“You what?” Will says. He takes the bottle when Spark shoves it at him and says to drink, says he needs to come down before he blows through the ceiling.

“What?” Spark asks.

“You’ve seen people lost to that shit and you…” Will provides for him and then he drinks deeply. It’s good stuff.

“Oh, I dunno,” Spark says. “Lost my train of thought. I’m still a little high myself, but it’s flittering out. I’m gonna have to crash soon and you need to work on that while I shower.” He gestures at the whisky and then goes to take a shower.

Will nods, he’ll drink it, sure. While Spark showers, he tries to sit, but he can’t really be still long enough for that. He tries one of Spark’s cigarettes, coughs for about half of it, but then gets the hang of what he’s doing. It’s okay, but really, Will gets nothing out it and if he can’t get something out of it then he doesn’t want it, so he doesn’t smoke another one. He gets the CD player out after that and plugs it up then gets the Pantera disc that has his song on it. It washes the flavor of the low, throbbing techno out of his mouth. He learns to mosh standing right there in front of the dresser and it’s pretty fun, but it’s also hard to drink and do that at the same time.

Spark comes out of the shower about half an hour later and Will is swaying in place, eyes heavy, although his fingers are still tip-tap-tipping and scratching when they’re not doing that. He’s clawed his shoulder raw in a couple of places and been back at the one hole he started, which is now bleeding lazily down his back.

“Shower,” Spark says, taking the bottle and giving him a little push.

Will doesn’t argue, he goes and does it because he very much wants to do it. He leans heavily against the wall, but doesn’t fall down. When he comes back, he’s naked and Spark doesn’t say anything about it, but he does give him his plaid pajama pants. He says he’ll be glad he did it when he sobers up. Will puts them on and then climbs into bed to lay in between the V of Spark’s legs with his back to his chest. Spark hands him the LTD and wraps an arm around his waist. Will is out of words for now and Spark is, too, he’s sure. So, they just sit there.

Spark falls asleep sometime after dawn, still sitting like that and holding him. Will drinks on because the booze is easing some of the tension in his body he hadn’t been all that aware of until it started to lessen. He finally passes out about 9:00 that morning, content and warm against Spark.

**III**

The next day, Will wakes filled with pain and regret. He’s lying in the bed now, covered up and positioned on his belly. His head hurts, his jaws hurt, his calves hurt—everything _hurts_. He knows he has damn near every kind of hangover imaginable to mankind, at least in the aches and pains department. One thing he can be grateful for is that he doesn’t feel the least bit sick to his stomach. He feels tender and bruised from the inside out, used like a cheap tool and thrown aside. His regret is instantaneous like it always is, but this time he’s got the memory of his own face reflected back at him. He knows it is going to haunt him for a long, long time if not for the rest of his life.

When he tries to shift around to get up and go relieve himself, all of his pains _explode_ and Will has to bite his lip against a sharp cry of pain. It comes out muffled as a loud whimper and he lays back down, actually feeling winded. He knows most of what he did last night and the sex was wild and in one case, definitely unwanted and painful, but he still wouldn’t have expected _this_ much achiness. When one thing is added to another though, it all comes out to a pretty long column of strenuous activity, the next to last of the batch being what probably pushed this all over the edge.

Will lies there with his bladder demanding he empty it at once and listens to the ringing in his ears. He thinks of the heroin in the cigar box, sitting there lonely on its closet shelf and considers it. He knows what he told Spark and he meant it, too: he won’t get hooked, he really won’t. It’s just that he hurts so damned bad right now and the heroin would make it all go away. He’d take more crank if it was offered to him now, for all of that, he barely felt any pain last night—though he did feel some. If he’d been on heroin, which he vastly prefers despite only having one experience with each, he probably wouldn’t have even known there were two dicks inside of him at once. If he had known, he wouldn’t have cared or been afraid. He wouldn’t have needed to hold Spark’s hand the whole time like a life preserver while two strangers double-teamed him. In the clear light of day, Will wonders how he could’ve done that to him.

He pushes himself up off the bed at last with his teeth gritted against anymore pain, which only sets off a whole new wave of throbbing in his jaws that goes all the way down his neck. He makes it to the bathroom on wobbly, stiff feeling legs and finally empties his bladder. When he’s done, he stands on the threshold between the bathroom and main room, debating whether or not to make a grab for the heroin. In the end, he decides that yes, he will. Spark may be mad about it—will be, Will amends—but he’ll understand, too, he thinks.

The cigar box is shoved to the very back of the shelf and hidden behind Spark’s winter coat that lays there like the skin of a selkie. Will takes it down from the shelf and feels almost greedy-giddy with a wash of delight. When he opens the box, however, it is empty. The extra needle is still there and so is all the other stuff, except the one thing that matters most: the heroin is gone. Will doesn’t need to ask to know that Spark flushed it or gave it to some hard-up junkie one day while Will was out. He did it because he _knew_ one day, sooner or later, Will was going to go looking for it again.

Will’s anger is instant and hot and for a minute, he forgets about his all-over aches. Spark doesn’t fucking _trust_ him not to use it. He doesn’t _trust_ him not to turn into a needle freak. _He doesn’t trust him_. Then Will looks down into the empty box again and understands why. The feeling is like he’s been deflated and he carefully puts the box away behind the coat again, closes the closet door and hobbles back to the bed, quietly chastened.

It does not make him stop wishing he had some though—just a little bit, just enough to take the edge off the pain and dull down the roaring in his head. Maybe it would take the memory of his face in the mirror from his mind; the memory of two cocks sliding in and out of his worn out little body.

He’s not been back in bed long before Spark comes back. He’s limping a little himself and is rubbing his jaw when he steps inside, the keys dangling against his skin and casting twinkles of light along it.

“Hey,” Spark says with a quick smile. He’s got a plastic bag from the little drugstore a block over looped around his wrist. “I got us some ibuprofen and a fifth of vodka. I am miserable and you’ve gotta be… I don’t even know what.”

“I feel like I have been run over,” Will says. “Repeatedly.”

“Poor baby,” Spark says. He sets the bag down in the recliner and takes out a big bottle of pills then pulls out a paper bag stamped with another liquor store’s logo. “Here,” he says as he passes Will the supplies. “I’ll fix us some Ramen in a minute and go out for food-food later. You need to be as still as you can manage.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Will assures him. “I went to piss and thought I was going to die.”

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Spark says. He watches Will push himself upright and winces in sympathy then puts a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Will mutters as he fumbles with the child-proof cap on the pills.

Spark takes it from him, opens it and shakes out four. Will takes them and by the time he’s popped them, Spark has the vodka open and hands him that as well. It goes down… not exactly smoothly, but a second to breathe through the shock to his empty stomach assures Will that it’ll stay down at least.

He lies back down when he’s done and Spark pats his arm before moving off to take care of the Ramen, which they make using a cheap coffee pot and an old Tupperware bowl. It’s actually very good, even if the preparation is the very definition of “ghetto”.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Will says while he watches Spark pour water into the reservoir in the back of the pot. “When I… when they _fucked me like that_.” He stops and takes a deep, calming breath through his nose, surprised at how quick and sharp his utter anger is. Partly it’s anger because he feels so _helpless_ when these things happen to him. His body is no longer his own and that is a godawful feeling. Huffing out his breath, Will makes himself carry on, “I’m sorry I held your hand like that and you couldn’t go sit in a chair or something to get away from it.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave you, ‘specially not once I realized what they’s gonna do to you,” Spark says. The coffee pot percolates away behind him now, burbling out hot water into the carafe. Will decides then and there that they’re going to buy some actual coffee to put in it next time they go to the store for a supply run. He actually feels like a dipshit for not thinking of it sooner. “I told ya, somebody’s gotta hold onto you.”

“You feel responsible for me,” Will says. He’s known it for a while, but he hasn’t said anything until now. Spark still blames himself for getting Will into this life and he accepts that Spark is the one that _introduced_ him to the _option_. He’s not the one that made him go down the hall to lay down in Mack’s bed though; Will did that all on his own.

Spark nods and keeps quiet, paying more attention to the coffee pot than to Will. Finally he says, “I told ya why I watch you, why I feel like _shit_ about what’s happened to you these past coupla months. Now I can’t stop worryin’ about you ‘cause I see it and that’s gonna be my fault, too.”

“See what?” Will asks.

“You and the drugs,” Spark says. “I gave you that shit the first time, the heroin and then maybe I didn’t give you the meth, but if not for me, you may’ve never even been around the shit. _I_ am responsible for that because _I_ am responsible for introducing you to Mack.”

“You didn’t stick the needle in my arm,” Will says. Actually, he did, but only after Will begged him to do it. “You didn’t make me snort the crank either. _I_ did all of that, just like _I_ went down the hall with Mack that night instead of running away. You have to trust me when I tell you I won’t end up a junkie.”

Spark sighs and pours the hot water over the noodles and seasoning in the Tupperware bowl then puts the lid on it. “Oh, yeah? Then tell me you didn’t get up today and go lookin’ for the heroin first thing.”

Will closes his eyes at that and tries to pretend Spark’s not boring holes into his skull with his stare. “I’m sorry,” Will says. “I’m _sorry_.”

“That shit, all of that shit, the horse and the dex… they shown you a way to get outside your head, maybe in a way you didn’t even know about before or at least didn’t think about,” Spark says. “Now you know what they do and you can’t _stop_ thinkin’ about the shit. I can’t say I get what it’s like to be you, to have whatever that shit is you have, but I’ve seen what it does to you. I can figure out fine that you want it to stop and I don’t even blame you for it. But that shit’s gonna kill you if you get started with it. I can see that, too, even without having your thing. You’re gonna get to needin’ too much, too quickly and it’ll _end_ you, Will No Name. Don’t make me responsible for your death, too.”

“No, hey, no,” Will says, opening his eyes again. Spark looks so sad standing there, sad in a way he’s never seen him before. His empathy seems magnified, maybe because of the X from last night, but he feels that sadness as his own and it reaches inside of Will and _twists_ his heart into a square knot. “I won’t, I swear I won’t. Please, believe me. I wouldn’t do that to you. I—” He picks at a piece of lint on the bedspread until he can trust his mouth not to betray him again. “I won’t make you responsible for my death. I will be right here twenty years from now, alive and kicking and…”

He stops again, thinking maybe his mouth gave too much away anyhow. _Twenty years from now_ is a long time to live with someone who’s just a friend, it suggests a different sort of permanence and Will really needs to learn when to stop talking.

“Why don’t you leave, Will?” Spark asks him after checking the noodles. He makes no comment on what Will said and Will hopes maybe he didn’t catch it. Spark’s smart though, so he probably did and simply chose to ignore it instead. “You can, you know. Your prints are bound to be on record somewhere. All you gotta do is go into a police station and ask ‘em to help you. You can go home to wherever it is you’re from and you’ll be safe and not stuck in this life anymore.”

“Or I may get arrested and thrown _under_ a prison,” Will says. “A person doesn’t just delete their whole life without good reason. Maybe I murdered my own mother or my next door neighbor. Maybe I did something terrible to someone I loved or maybe I just saw something terrible and wanted to un-see it so badly, I wiped out my entire life just to get rid of that one image. I told you, I’m afraid of what I may’ve done or who I may’ve been. I’ve felt that almost from the very beginning. I still wonder, it haunts me sometimes like… like rats scratching inside of a wall, but I think it maybe scares me even more. My past is lurking somewhere on a dark forest path in my mind and maybe I do mean myself harm.”

“Maybe,” Spark says. “Out there though you’ve _got a chance_ and maybe it wasn’t so bad, maybe you just had an ugly divorce or somethin’.”

His shoulders droop and he checks the noodles again, determines they’re ready and grabs two cheap plastic spoons from the hoarded pile of fast food utensils they keep. He sits on the bed and helps Will sit up as well. They eat their noodle soup, Will’s hand shaking and dribbling salty broth all over the place, but Spark doesn’t say anything to him about it. Spark’s surprisingly neat, but he’s not a Nazi about things either.

About halfway through the bowl, Will says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been married, so it wasn’t a divorce.”

“But you don’t _know_ that, do you?” Spark says. He pauses and then just goes ahead with it, “Will, are you even _gay_? I mean, some guys ain’t, they just do it ‘cause they got to do _somethin’_. I think David’s straight, but I may just be gettin’ caught up in the fact he’s ex-military, too.”

“Of course not,” Will says. He slurps some broth off his spoon—it’s the best part to him. He thinks about Spark’s other question, even though he knows the answer there. He’s observed in himself an attraction to pretty women, but he’s also had reactions towards men. Nothing like what he feels for Spark, which is more than physical ( _stop it!_ he admonishes himself for about the millionth time) but it’s there. “I’m not gay, no. I’m bisexual. I figured that out really early on after I… woke up. Are _you_ gay?”

“Actually, yeah, I am,” Spark says. At Will’s quickly curious look, he shakes his head. “No, Sherlock, that ain’t why I left home though. I knew then, but it still ain’t why ‘cause nobody wouldn’t’a much cared that I like dick instead of pussy.”

“Then _why_ did you leave?” Will asks.

Spark sighs and rolls his eyes, but he does answer him at long last. “I ran off ‘cause of my dad. I loved him when he was sober, but I _hated_ him when he was drunk. My mom, she ran off when I’s… I don’t know… six, maybe. Married herself some rich white rancher and forgot about us. I got a little sister and we have an aunt that liked her more than me, so she took her in. Said there’s no room for me, so I got stuck with my dad all the time after my grandpa died.”

Will lays his hand on Spark’s arm and leans his cheek against his shoulder. Given his current wide-open state, he really does feel his pain. It’s old pain, but it still cuts, rusty and dull like the teeth of a steak knife. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Not your fault my old man’s a stereotype; a drunk Indian,” Spark says. As though because it’s fresh in his mind, he picks up the vodka and takes a swallow with a soft laugh. “Like I said, I loved him when he was sober, but that got to be more and more rare until that man, that… version… of my dad was gone. I’s just left with the dickhead that liked to knock me around when he was three sheets gone. So, one night I took every last bit of money the motherfucker had, emptied out my school bag and packed a few things. I stole his truck keys, bailed off the rez and drove to the bus station in Missoula. Then I’s gone like the wind. I’d never been fuckin’ terrified and happy at the same time like I was the day I got on that bus. Fast forward to now and you see how swell my life turned out.”

Will leans heavily against him and wraps his arms around him in a clumsy hug. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Spark tips his head over to lean it against the side of Will’s. “Well, at least you ain’t cryin’ about it this time,” he says.

It startles a laugh out of Will and some of the weight in his chest, heavy as an iron gate, lifts. “No, I won’t cry about it, I swear,” Will says. “I still feel like I’m half high on the X though. On top of my usual what-the-hell-ever it is.”

“That happens sometimes,” Spark says. “Least it’s me tellin’ you sad stories while that’s still goin’ on with you instead of us bein’ out and you gettin’ stuck with one of the weirdos tonight. I don’t even wanna know what that’d do to your head when you’re like this.”

“Bad things,” Will says. He eats more soup and they fall silent again. He still likes that they can do that, likes how it never gets old or uncomfortable. _Stop it!_

For a little while, he does stop it. The ibuprofen kicks in and he starts drinking the last bit of the LTD before taking anymore of the vodka. After a little while, Will feels half human again and that’s pretty alright with him. When Spark goes out for food and comes back with Dominos a little while later, he feels closer to three quarters human after they eat.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Will suffers from what Spark calls the “Suicide Blues”. On top of still being in more than his fair share of pain, Will is so fucking sad he can barely lift his head. He’s irritable when he’s not verging on bawling out of pure depressive misery or idly considering finding the nearest gun and eating a bullet from it.

He yells at Spark for sharpening his knife because he says it is too loud. Normally, he likes the sound, but today it’s getting on his nerves. Instead of yelling back like he usually would, Spark just puts the knife away and smokes quietly. Will snarls at him about how secondhand smoke _kills_ and Spark calmly flicks ashes into the ashtray at his elbow. A few minutes later, Will apologizes to him and almost breaks down over it and tells him he’s just _so sad_ and doesn’t know why.

“It’s the other side of the X coin,” Spark says. “One side’s up, one side’s down.”

“You’re not down,” Will accuses.

“I am, too, I feel like absolute shit, but I ain’t already depressed on top of that either,” Spark says.

“I am not fucking depressed,” Will says. He glares at Spark. “I’m _not_.”

“Okay,” Spark says, easy as that. He takes another drag of his cigarette.

“If either of us is depressed then it’s _you_ ,” Will says. He’s not quite willing to let that one go even though he knows it’s not true. Spark’s about as fatalistic as they come, but he’s a realist about it, not a sad-sack. “ _You’re_ depressed, just admit it. Admit that you’re… you’re _projecting_ onto me. Then say you’re sorry.”

“Okay,” Spark says. “I’m sorry for projecting my depression onto you and I take it all back. I’m a shitty, awful person for doing such a thing to a happy guy like you.”

“Thank you,” Will says. He lapses into a sullen silence and Spark lights another cigarette.

Half an hour later, Will says, “I’m sorry I accused you of being depressed. I really am depressed and _I_ was the one projecting.” He feels his bottom lip quiver and God, _oh God_ , does he hate this. He is never, ever, _ever_ doing ecstasy again.

“I forgive you,” Spark says. He’s eating half a Little Debbie snack cake and passes the other one to Will. “Have an orange cupcake flavored hunk of fat and sugar.”

“Thanks,” Will says.

He blinks his watering eyes and eats his cupcake. It’s really good. After that, he dozes for a little while, only to be awakened by the crack head neighbors having yet another screaming match. Instantly, he is pissed off where usually he listens to them with a mix of curiosity and amusement flavored with annoyance. Right now he wants to rip their fucking heads off and jam them up their asses.

He gets up onto his knees in the bed, the pain in his body egging on his anger and beats at the wall with both fists. “Shut up!” he screams through to them. “Why don’t you just shut up and _fucking die_?! I hate you! I was sleeping and I hate you!”

Spark pulls him away from the wall, wide-eyed and startled looking. Will has a second to wonder if he was asleep, too and then he fights him as well. “Let me the fuck go!” he yells. “I’m _fine_ , it’s those motherfuckers over there that won’t _shut up_!” He goes limp right after that outburst, a wind-up bomb that’s run out of detonation fuel. He sags against Spark’s arms still around him. “I was sleeping,” Will says morosely.

“You are seriously fuckin’ bipolar right now, goddamn,” Spark says. “I ain’t never seen a case of Suicide Blues like yours. I know we have this talk way too fuckin’ much to suit either of us, but I’m askin’ you this as a _favor_ : Don’t ever, ever eat X again. Your roll leads you straight to Crazy Town.”

“I concur,” Will says.

Spark lets him go and Will lies down again, face cradled on his crossed forearms so he isn’t face down in his pillow. He liked rolling, but the fallout of the high is not something he _ever_ wants to experience again. Not to mention, it leaves him open wider than he already is and the influx of stimuli is a heavy burden now in the steady-on light of day. He’d been downright tickled about it when he was high, but now it only rattles around in his head like a stone in a box.

Spark gives him a massage a couple of hours later after watching Will limp around to get his things together so he can shower. He starts at his neck and ends at his feet and Will feels himself go limp muscle by muscle. He can’t quite hold back all of the groans of thanks. Spark laughs at him and scratches his head, which also feels nice, not undignified. He falls asleep with half-wood and is just glad he’s lying on his stomach when it happens.

When he wakes up again, he’s feeling closer to his usual level of sane, which is truly great. He returns the favor and gives Spark a rub down after since he’s sore and stiff, too. That and it’s just manners and maybe— _maybe_ —a bit of an excuse, too. It makes Will feel ashamed and like a bit of a sleaze, but he can’t hide from it either.

They go to bed relatively early for them, both still tired from two nights ago—they’ve been napping a lot anyway. This is their last chance until Sunday because they go back to work tomorrow.

**IV**

Will’s first night out is a slow and uncomfortable undertaking. He doesn’t fuck anyone and loses three tricks that way, easy as that. He doesn’t mind, he’s still too sore and really isn’t ready to get on his back again, period. Mack notices the cut in Will’s earning and gives him a look, but doesn’t say anything. He counts his share back to him and Will takes his money, turns and leaves to wait in the smelly hall for Spark.

His second night out is the same thing, but he only loses one trick. The other he could’ve lost settles on a blow job though and so, Will makes some cash there. Again, Mack says nothing when they settle up that night, but his look is sharper. Will stares right back and doesn’t say a word either.

On their way home, Spark asks if he’s okay, if those guys hurt him worse than he’s let on. Will tells him no, but he is still sore and that he’ll get back to it soon. He tells Spark not to worry. He doesn’t tell Spark that he’s a little afraid to try, soreness or no soreness, because just the thought makes him see the stranger in the mirror. The one with the black holes for eyes, covered in sweat and being fucked by two men at the same time. He remembers how he screamed when he came, how even that hurt—and yet did not. Will never wants that again, not that man in the mirror looking back at him.

The third night, Mr. Business comes calling for him and Will flinches at the idea, but he goes. It’s the same thing as usual: Will gets the room, pockets the extra and then Mr. Business sets about the task of taking him apart cell by cell while he plants his seeds.

He puts clamps all along Will’s inner thighs and one on each nipple this time. They’re small metal things with their jaws wrapped in red leather for padding. They still hurt, but they probably won’t leave bruises and if they do, they’ll be faint and won’t last long. Every single pinch of them against his skin makes Will’s breath catch and hitch a little sharper than the last. He closes his eyes and focuses on the pain, watching the garden grow as Mr. Business begins to finger him.

Will is straining and moaning without restraint, without Mr. Business’s sharp commands to stop him, when he begins to flick the clamps off his thighs. Each clamp coming off makes Will arch his back and jump a bit at the quick pull-pinch of the clamps coming loose. His heart is racing, heavy in the back of his throat. He’s harder than he’s been since the night he met Tina and he’s _thisclose_ to wrecked.

Mr. Business sinking inside of him makes Will bite his bottom lip and whimper. There is still the residual ache of the double penetration, an echo of what it was in the first couple of days. It’s faint enough now that it’s all a _good_ kind of hurt. Will rolls his hips into the thrusts and each movement makes the remaining clamps pull against his skin, which only spurs him on.

Mr. Business sits back and half drags Will into his lap, his legs spread wide around his hips. That, too, pulls and adds strain against the clamped places on his thighs. Then Mr. Business snaps another one off and it goes flying off into the room. Will’s voice breaks on a cry and then Mr. Business does it again on his opposite thigh. It goes back and forth until the clamps on his thighs are all gone and Will is shaking again, so close. One more clamp on his thigh to go snapping off into the room would’ve done it for him.

He still manages to say, “I’m… close… I’m…”

Mr. Business grabs the clamps on his nipples and twists them, releasing the grip of the jaws just as the pressure becomes almost unbearable. When they’re gone, there is nothing but a deeply aching throb left behind and Will comes with a shout muffled through his clenched teeth.

In the come down, Will lets his mind drift and comes up with images of dogs drooling over the ringing of a bell. He recalls a small child being taught that bunnies were to be feared because a popping balloon was used to startle the child the moment the bunny appeared. If such things can apply to dogs with food and children with bunnies then it stands to reason that similar principles could apply to training the brain to mistake pain for pleasure. Human beings can be _conditioned_ to almost anything; good, bad or in between. There’s no reason such a thing shouldn’t apply to sexual activities. Will can still distinguish pain from pleasure when he stubs his toe, but when it comes to sex, that line is very blurry now. With time and given Mr. Business’s patience and increase in painful stimuli, it will eventually cease to exist almost entirely.

This is sloppy for all of that though, not the right conditions as Will has thought about before, but the psychology is the same. Mr. Business is upping the ante though and Will knows one day he will ask for a week or longer _alone_ with Will. They will go somewhere safe and likely with some sort of soundproofing. There, he will begin to perfect his experiment and there he will likely end up making Will bleed. He may leave scars. If it proves as successful as it seems to already be—this is the trial run before he makes his final decision to take or not take Will—then Will may never come back here. He will be kept as a human pin cushion that begs for more pain, more pain, moremoremore until he orgasms.

Mr. Business is perfecting his ideal and he has found a prime candidate in Will. Mr. Business is a sadist, not the kind that murders or rapes, but still the kind who takes pleasure in the pain of another—so long as that other gets off on it. He’s trying to ensure that happens like clockwork with Will.

When he tells Will to get dressed and leave, Will does. Except this time he stops at the door and says, “You need to find a new test subject.”

It’s the first time Mr. Business has ever looked surprised or anything other than mildly annoyed. He is cold, aloof; all hard edges and rigidly held self-control. Will takes great pleasure in seeing his eyes widen with shock. He smiles at him.

“I’m not a dog and I won’t drool for you,” Will says. Some of the damage is done, it may be irreversible, too—only time will tell on that front, but this… _this_ is over. He will not be bought and paid for and sent away never to return so he can be this man’s toy and greatest triumph. “Don’t come for me again because I won’t go with you anymore. I know your design now and I don’t like it—you will not do that to me and you won’t do this to me anymore either. Goodnight.”

He shuts the door softly and walks away, actually feeling pretty good about himself. He’s smiling as he goes and sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling light as air for a change.

Will tells Spark later and doesn’t hold back details. He lays out the design for him to see and even tells him some of the conditioning is done, but he’s not going to allow it to continue. He tells him that he and Mr. Business are quits.

Spark says, “Woo!” and falls to his knees in mock reverence, hands held up to the sky as he grins at Will.

Will laughs and scuffs his foot on the pavement as the rent boys with their rainbow hair up the way turn to look and see what the fuss is about. They remind Will of raccoons for some reason. Or ferrets.

“So, it’s okay now,” Will says when Spark gets up.

Spark hugs him and sways him from side to side. “I’m so fuckin’ glad you got rid of that dude,” he says.

Will hugs him back and allows himself to be danced around in a clumsy half circle. He’s glad, too; glad to’ve figured it out, glad to’ve finally told Mr. Business what’s for and glad to be danced around. Will doesn’t even yelp—much—when Spark dips him once before letting him go.

The dirty yellow-orange glow of their street lamp shines down on them like a spotlight and Will counts this as a good night.


	4. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the content of this chapter may be particularly disturbing and/or upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised. (I can't believe I just typed that.)

_“Oh, come on fall, bring your titled leaves_   
_Bring that cold, whipping wind that brings me to my knees_   
_Because then this long time will diminish into days_   
_Because then I can finally fill this silly space called my head”_

— Matson Jones   
“He Means Nothing, Dear”

**I**

One Sunday Will is walking back from the dollar store around the corner with a bag full of necessaries—toiletries and coffee—when he spots a dog wandering around. It’s an underweight, flea-bitten rag of a pit bull dog, its black fur dull with dirt and grime. People walk right by it and one little boy even kicks it when the dog gives a tentative wag and tries to make friends. Will scowls and waits for the brat to pass, barely managing to fight back the urge to kick him then ask him how he likes it.

Once he has the sidewalk to himself, he whistles to the dog and says, “Hey there, hey.”

The dog spies him and pricks up her badly cropped—butchered, is more like it—ears. She hesitates for a second and then bolts towards Will, long, thin tail whipping the air as she comes. Will smiles and crouches down when she gets to him. He scratches her ears and pats her broad, flat head. The dog’s tongue lolls out in a happy pant, making it look like she’s grinning at him. Will likes her already.

He’s not sure about the pet policy at the Del Mar, although he can just about bet that pets aren’t allowed. He also figures Mr. Tran won’t say much, if he ever finds out at all. He and Spark have the corner room on the south side of the building; it’s in a blind spot to the office. If they take the dog out, they only need to go the opposite direction to avoid notice entirely. The plan forms before Will is 100% sure he’s going to take the dog home. Only then does he realize he had his mind made up the second he saw her.

“Come on, girl,” he says and pats his leg to get her to follow him back to the dollar store to get her some food, flea shampoo and bowls for water and kibble. Oh and a leash, he thinks—she’s going to need a leash... and a collar. He’s just glad it’s a dollar store and therefore cheaper; even as it is, she’s going to damn near wipe him out for the day. Will thinks she’s worth it though, no doubt about it.

On the way back once all of that is done, Will decides on a name for her: Alice. She looks like an Alice to him.

Spark is still asleep when Will gets in, but it’s also kind of early for people such as themselves. It’s just that Will snapped awake from a weird dream—the book with blank pages and a man’s voice asking him, _And how does that make you feel?_ It wasn’t a nightmare, really, but it was unsettling and Will couldn’t get back to sleep. Instead of bugging Spark, he went out for toiletries and was planning on picking up some food, but then he met Alice.

He slips into the room unnoticed after the dog has wiggled through the gap in the door. She makes a beeline for the bed and hops onto it without a second thought. Will watches with his hand over his mouth to try and muffle his laughter as she begins to enthusiastically lick Spark’s face.

He flails and comes to with a, “What the hell?!” Upon seeing the dog, he repeats his question, only louder and adds, “What did you do, Will?”

“Well… I was coming back from the dollar store and I saw her. Some kid _kicked_ her and I just thought… Well, I like her and she needs a home and um… you know,” he says.

He puts his bags and the dog food down by the door then takes the food and water bowls into the bathroom to wash them. Spark’s looking at him like he really wants to throw a shoe at his head right now.

“That fuckin’ recliner is one thing for you to pack in here, but a dog is something else, man,” Spark says. “We can’t keep a dog and— Shit, stop lickin’ my face, dog.”

Will peeks around the doorframe and watches Spark wiping slobber off his face again. He grins and then asks, “What, you don’t like dogs? Or wait… You’re not one of those people that’s afraid of pit bulls are you?”

“I do like dogs and no, I’m not afraid of pit bulls; I grew up around them,” Spark says. He points at Will peeking around the door at him and Will raises his eyebrows. “That is not the _point_. The point is that we cannot have a dog here, this place doesn’t allow pets and if they find out then we’re gonna get tossed on our asses. We can take her to a shelter or something.”

“Alice isn’t going anywhere,” Will says. “I found her and she needed me and I helped her. Now, she has a home here with us.”

He is dedicated to this, some urge to take in and protect her is driving him onward. He’s found he very much likes strays—all kinds of strays. While he’s undeniably fond of the bloodstained chair, Will can honestly say now that he _loves_ Alice. His attachment was almost instant. Apparently this is a _thing_ of his, it feels hauntingly familiar and like a solid fit. This isn’t bad at all though.

“You already named her,” Spark mutters around the filter of a cigarette. The dog is laid out happily on Will’s side of the bed, panting and looking around. She’s already made herself right at home.

“Yes,” Will says as he turns back to wash the bowls like he came in here to do.

“That’s bad,” Spark says. “Once you name them, that means you’re attached. You’re attached aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Will says again.

“Fuck, Will! Why did you do this?”

“I told you why,” Will says. “She needs us. Out there she’ll die, but before that, people will keep being mean to her. She’ll die _after_ she’s been kicked and hit and screamed at by hateful people. Here, she has a home, here she’s _safe_ and loved and fed and—”

“I get it,” Spark says from the doorway. “Take a breath and calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Will says.

“You were gettin’ kinda worked up,” he says. He sighs and watches Will cleaning the bowls out. “You can keep the damned dog, but if we get thrown out over this shit then it’s on you.”

“Deal,” Will says. He looks over his shoulder at Spark and grins. “But we’re not going to get caught. I have a plan.”

“And what’s that?”

Will tells Spark his plan about taking her around the side since they’re on the corner of the complex. There’s a weed choked lot with the burnt out remains of some factory next to the motel. They can cut across it and let her do her business there and have some play time. Then it’s back around the side of the building to their room.

“Uh-huh,” Spark says when Will’s done explaining his grand master plan to him. “And what’re we gonna do if she barks or whines or claws at the door?”

Will hasn’t thought about that and right now, he’s not going to. That’s something they’ll have to deal with when the time comes. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out,” Will says. Mostly, figuring it out at the moment is just hoping she won’t do it.

“That’s an awesome plan, Will,” Spark says flatly.

“I know,” Will says, ignoring him and his _tone_. He finishes cleaning bowls and then fills one with water to take into the room. He puts it on the far side where Alice will actually have room to eat and drink.

She watches him do it and the second he’s stepped away, she’s lapping away at the water. While she does that, Will opens the dog food and fills her bowl with kibble and half a can of Alpo.

“We can’t afford to take her to the vet,” Spark says. He’s sitting on the foot of the bed now, watching Will moving around and happily tending to the dog.

“I know,” he says with a frown. “I wish we could, but I know we can’t. We can still give her a better life in here with us than she would have out on the street.”

“I guess so,” Spark says.

“You’re very negative,” Will says.

“And you, you’re the picture of sunshine and light as a rule, yeah?” Spark asks.

“I didn’t say that, but _this_ … this is a good thing,” Will says.

He gives Alice her food and stands back to watch her eat. He feels very satisfied, pleased and content even. Something about all of this—the dog, the room, the bloodstained recliner and Spark sitting on the bed—feels _whole_ to Will. It’s _comforting_ even if it is somewhat illusory. He can pretend for a little while, for just a minute he can act like all of the pieces have fallen into place and he has a real life. He can make-believe he has the kind of life other, _normal_ people have.

“She needs a bath,” Spark says a little while later as Alice is devouring her second bowl of kibble and the other half of her canned.

“I know,” Will says. He gets up to go root in one of his bags. He comes up with the flea shampoo. “I prepared for that.”

“You’re a regular boy scout, you,” Spark says. He gets up and takes the shampoo and then rolls his eyes with a huff of breath. “I’ll wash her if you go get food.”

“Okay,” Will says. “I can do that.”

“So, go do it,” Spark says. He pokes Will gently. “I’m gonna make some coffee and then do that. By the time you get back, this stinkin’ ass dog is gonna look like the belle of the flea bag ball.”

“You like her,” Will says.

“I’m learning to tolerate her,” Spark allows.

That’s good enough for Will and he picks up his keys with yet another grin and goes out the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will comes in with Chinese takeout and finds Spark still in the shower with Alice. There’s water and soap suds all over the floor, Spark is drenched and so is Alice. She is having a ball and Spark is reluctantly having one with her. Will squeezes by the recliner to put the food on the table and has just barely set it down when Alice spies him. She barrels straight for him, going across the bed to better reach him and jumps in his arms. She covers him in soap foam and water as well. It makes Will laugh and when Spark calls for him to bring her back, he squeezes back by the recliner, still holding Alice and takes her to him. They end up washing her and then spending another 45 minutes sopping up all the water then changing out of their drenched clothes. Alice is sprawled out in the recliner and sniffing the air experimentally, scenting the Chinese, by the time they’re done.

Will halves his egg roll with her and Spark refuses to share anything at all, but does let her have what he doesn’t eat when he’s finished. Will thinks this is all most excellent and indulges in his little fantasy one more time before he forces himself to put it away entirely.

That night, Alice sleeps in the bed with them, snuggling into the space Will leaves behind when he rolls over to lay against Spark. This, Will thinks, as he lies in bed listening to Spark’s breathing and Alice’s surprisingly loud snoring, is about as good as it gets.

**II**

A week after they get Alice, Will and Spark walk to Mack’s before they head home for the night. They’re not worried about it now, Alice has proven to be a very quiet dog and pretty lazy to boot. She’s only peed on the floor once and thankfully chose to do it in the bathroom where it was easier to clean up. One of them slips over to the room after a trick at the motel and takes her out again then. They take her out for some playtime in the evenings before work and one of them usually takes her out for a romp after they get home if they’re not totally worn out. If they are then it’s just a quick trip to do her business, but Alice really doesn’t seem to mind.

That night when Mack opens the door, Will knows something isn’t right. It’s radiating off Mack in waves and his eyes have dark rings around them, although he shouldn’t necessarily be tired—he keeps the same hours they do and does far less. To him, this is what late evening is to most.

“What’s wrong?” Will asks after they step inside. He does it before he can stop himself.

“Stevie’s dead,” Mack says. He clears his throat and looks down at the floor. Will is kind of surprised to see that he’s genuinely upset about this and not just because of the loss in income, he doesn’t think. “Some trick took him to a motel room and stabbed him to death. Fuckin’ manager found him ‘cause the hour had run out and he still hadn’t turned in the key. Then the cops called me ‘cause I was listed as his emergency contact.”

“Fuck,” Spark says. He sits down on the sofa and lets out a heavy breath.

It’s part of the reality of what they do and they all know it. Every trick they take on could be the one to shoot, stab, strangle or kill them some other, more creative, way. Guys like Spark, David and Angel are a bit bigger than some of the rent boys, a bit more filled out and they don’t make such easy targets. Understanding that also reveals another piece of Mack’s design. He doesn’t just choose his boys based on their looks, but also on how well he gauges their ability to defend themselves. Will’s smaller and thinner than the other three, but he’s not a slip of guy like Stevie was either. Although, sometimes he’d swear he must have a sign hanging around his neck that reads: _Kick Me_.

Mack’s so upset about this because he’s been where they still have to go. He knows that whores get killed and nobody cares about their bodies because there is nobody to care. About this, Will realizes, Mack _empathizes_.

“When did it happen?” Will asks.

“Just a coupla hours ago,” Mack says. He goes into the kitchen to get himself a beer and brings back one for Will and Spark, too.

Will takes his beer and opens it. He notices that so far, Mack’s too distracted to even ask them for their money. He hopes he forgets altogether, but Will figures they’re not going to get that lucky. Then he calls himself an insensitive asshole because someone just _died_. Maybe this life is really starting to take its toll on him; maybe more so than he thought.

Mack sits down with a thump and rakes his fingers through his hair. He makes an angry sound in the back of his throat. “Some motherfucker picked him up, fucked him and then murdered him. And you know what? He’ll get away with the shit, too. Cops don’t care about whores and it’ll just get swept under the rug. It’ll be called a “public service killing”. I’ve heard them say that shit before and they like to pretend shit has changed, but it fuckin’ well hasn’t.”

He slumps in his seat like what he’s just said has worn him out and laughs. “Cops asked me what I wanted to do with the body. I don’t have a lotta time to figure it out either. I don’t fucking know what to do with it though,” Mack says. He shakes his head and makes himself sit up straighter. “We’re going by his room tomorrow though to go through his stuff. I don’t want the pigs in there digging through his shit. You two in?”

“Sure,” Will says for him and Spark both. Spark gives him a sharp look for it, but just drinks his beer and keeps quiet.

“Good, meet me here about four then,” Mack says. He runs his fingers through his hair again then stands up. “Alright, let’s count your earnings out and then you two get the fuck home.”

They conduct their business and when they go to leave, Mack says something he’s never said before. He says, “Be careful.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Going through Stevie’s things the next day is a quick and quietly sad affair. Like the rest of them, he didn’t have much. Angel seems the saddest of them all and from what Will saw of them together, they seemed to be friends. He tells him he’s sorry and Angel looks at him like he’s grown another head then says, “Yeah, uh… thanks.” People like them aren’t used to being offered sympathy or condolences.

There’s only one thing that looks like it meant anything much to Stevie in the whole room and it’s the one thing everyone else overlooks. It’s a framed picture of a little towheaded boy sitting on the lap of a smiling, equally blonde, woman. She’s beautiful and she’s got her cheek pressed against the boy’s chubby little cheek. They’re both smiling at the camera. Will knows it’s Stevie and his mother, who is probably dead. Will takes it from off the top of the television and then goes outside to wait with Spark, who won’t go inside and refuses to take anything.

He told Will that to take the things of a dead man is to bring their spirit home with you. He really does not want any of Stevie’s spirit. Will knows that of all of them, Spark disliked Stevie the most; he’d even go so far as to say that Spark _hated_ Stevie. Will can understand why—Stevie was the exact opposite of everything Spark is; the kind of opposite that repels instead of attracts.

Will didn’t like him either, but this is still sad to him and it’s awful seeing a person’s life cut short so young. It’s been made even worse for him to go into Stevie’s room and see his few meager belongings; all the things he has left behind. It’s not a legacy. It’s not even a whisper.

All of that puts Will in a pretty bad mood for the rest of the day. He feels angry and sad and wishes he could get all of this shit out of his head sometimes. He barely knew Stevie and didn’t like what he did know and yet, he still mourns for the life he lost because he can’t stop seeing it; seeing how Stevie’s short, sad life played out to its tragic end of bloody anonymity.

**III**

A week and half later and Stevie is nearly forgotten. Mack hasn’t mentioned him since the day they collected and divided up his belongings, although he has been quieter than usual lately. Will has no idea what Mack ultimately decided to do with his body or if he ever told the police he may have family up in Maine, family that may want to know what became of him.

Will takes the picture of Stevie and his mother, wraps it in the coat he was wearing the day he woke up into this new life and puts it in the rickety dresser. He still half entertains ideas, some sort of vague _need to_ feeling, about looking into it himself even though he hasn’t the first clue where to start or how to proceed.

All is well with Spark, at least on the surface and Will silently congratulates him on having a great poker face. He isn’t saddened or upset about Stevie, that much is obvious, but his brutal murder has put him on edge even though he hasn’t said anything about it. He’s more cautious about johns, he watches Will far more closely. He spends an inordinate amount of time sharpening his already lethally sharp knife.

It’s left Will jumpy and on edge, more leery around tricks than he has been since his first couple of weeks. He sizes each and every one of them up very carefully, reading them the best he can in bad light, before deciding if he’ll go with them. The only one that comes along that he doesn’t do that with is Mike of the Wal-Mart Automotive Center. Will seems to’ve scored himself a new regular. Mike’s panties on his second visit are bright red and made of vinyl. Will assumes that means he is feeling extra naughty and so spanks him like he’s behaved so. He makes sure Mike wears a condom this time.

After Mike and another bout of the giggles—Will figures he’ll get over that eventually, but it’s all too new for him just yet—he goes back to the sidewalk. Spark is gone when he makes it back and Will leans against the light pole, trying to be still as possible to keep from sweating anymore than he already is. The summer heat that’s still oozing out of the pavement makes Will’s feet feel like they’re baking in his shoes as he stands there. He shifts from foot to foot to try and ease the feeling, but it does no good. August has been brutal so far and Will can’t wait for fall to come on down; he’s ready to cool off. He thinks it would be nice to see some snow.

Spark comes back about twenty minutes later. It’s the judge again, he’s one of Spark’s regulars, coming at least once a week and sometimes twice. Will’s never had the pleasure of his company and thinks maybe he isn’t the judge’s type; he certainly doesn’t look anything like Spark, whom the judge seems to favor. It’d be nice to curb some favor, just as he thought the very first night. Maybe one day Will will get an elected official of his own for a regular. This, he thinks, is what qualifies as a big dream for the sidewalk kind.

The judge pulls away and Spark trots over to Will. The first thing Will notices is that Spark is smiling. It instantly makes him suspicious.

“So, I may have some awesome news,” Spark says. He lights a cigarette and leans next to Will.

Spark’s body radiates cool air from the air conditioning he just stepped out of and Will takes a second to enjoy it before asking, “And that would be?”

“Well, the judge has been a regular of mine since I was twenty,” Spark says. “I always knew he liked me, but I didn’t think much of it. Anyways, he asked me tonight if I might be interested in spending the weekend with him. It’s his birthday and he says he just wants to kick back at his lake house with some “good company” he called me.”

Will feels his heart stop and then sink like a stone. It rises up again a second later on an unpleasant wave of jealousy. “What did you say?”

“I said I’d think about it,” Spark says. “You can’t give too much away and all. I gave him my number, told him I’d talk to Mack—he’ll say yeah, I know how he is. He’s supposed to call Friday. Between me and you, I’m gonna go with him. It’s a weekend in a lake house, man, you know? This may be the only chance I get to see how the other side lives.”

“Or he may change your name to Julia Roberts and you’ll live happily ever after,” Will says.

Yeah, he’s definitely jealous and he’s being a dick about it. He’s pissed, too and Will doesn’t even know why except that it should be… something that it’s not. He tells himself to, yet again, _stop it_ and usually it works, but this time it doesn’t.

Spark gives him a funny look, eyes narrowed against the smoke curling into them. “I’m not some redhead chick with skanky boots on,” Spark says. “It ain’t like that, this is just business and nothin’ else. I wouldn’t do it even if he asked.”

“Well, that’s stupid then,” Will says. “If he offered you a way out from under this damn streetlight then you’d be a moron not to take it.”

“I told you I wasn’t smart,” Spark says. His eyes narrow again and this time not because of the smoke. “You alright? You pick up a bad john or somethin’? You seem kinda pissy.”

“I’m fine,” Will says. He does not miss the fact that he sounds like a girl right now. “Just fine.” It still does not stop him.

“Oookay,” Spark says slowly. He stomps out his cigarette and kicks the butt into the gutter. “I don’t believe you, but okay.”

“You should,” Will says. “I’m _great_.”

“Uh-huh,” Spark says. “Right. You’re the picture of good cheer.”

Will says nothing and looks away because Spark is watching him very closely. It makes him feel like a bug pinned to cork and he fidgets. Will feels like an overgrown child standing here, but this _hurts_. He can’t stop thinking that the judge will charm and lure Spark away with his money and _lake house_. He’ll never see Spark again because the judge is going to take him away from Will.

It pisses him off in that helpless kind of way he’s gotten sickly accustomed to because there’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t even have the _right_ to be jealous this way. He’s the one carrying the pathetic torch, the one who can’t stop being in love here. None of it is returned, it’s not mutual and he’s just some loser who’s forgotten who he was that Spark took pity on. Now he’s nothing but a hooker with hearts in his eyes for his best friend. Will makes himself a little sick because all he wants is a love that’s returned in full. He makes himself sicker because he knows when it comes to that, he’s only tilting at windmills.

Knowing all of that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

After a few minutes, Spark clears his throat and pushes away from the light pole. “I’m goin’ to get some smokes. You wanna walk with me?”

“No,” Will says. He snaps that one syllable out between his clenched teeth. The longer he’s stood here, the madder he’s gotten and he’s not even mad at Spark, he’s mad at himself because he’s a stupid fucking _fool_.

“Look, what the—”

“I thought you needed smokes,” Will says, cutting him off.

Spark’s eyes narrow with annoyance, but he nods. “Yeah, I do. See ya in a bit.” He walks away muttering something about how he hopes the stick Will’s got up his ass will have been removed by the time he gets back.

Will almost yells at him for it, but stops himself. This, like most everything else, is not Spark’s fault. Will’s the one being stupid here.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ten minutes later, Will’s just as mad as he was when Spark walked away and is quickly devolving into a spiral of self-loathing that promises to blossom into a fantastic little depressive episode if it doesn’t stop. That’s why, when a car pulls up to the curb, Will barely looks at the guy. He only asks him if he’s a cop and when he says no, Will asks him what he wants. He says he wants to fuck. Will says that sounds like a great idea and gets in the car. He directs him to the Del Mar and still barely glances at him.

It’s only when they’re in the parking lot before he goes in to get the room that Will actually _looks_ at the guy. He’s muscular, built like a boxer maybe and with the face to match—his nose looks like it was smashed repeatedly with a brick. He’s got calluses on his knuckles and fire in his piggy little blue eyes. Will thinks he was maybe an okay enough looking guy at one time, but he’s had his face rearranged too many times to still be such. He’s probably about 40 or 45, likely retired now and living in a closet stuffed full of trophies and bronzed gloves.

Will could give less than a shit about all of that and just takes his money and goes to get the room. He gets the key to room 139 and tells the guy where to go. He’s not a talker and he’s not nervous, he’s got a purpose and that purpose is to fuck. Will’s actually kind of glad he’s goal-oriented, that means there’ll be no fumbling and mumbling; only a quick in and out and then it’ll be done. It’ll take Will’s mind off of his own stupidity for a few minutes and he really needs that right now because he’s still in about the worst mood he’s been in for ages. He really feels like he could hit something right now. Being fucked through the mattress may cure him of that, not because of sexual enjoyment, but because it’s a distraction. It’s something else for him to think ugly thoughts about.

Inside the room, the guy doesn’t waste time and tells Will to take his clothes off. Will does so after getting a condom out and passing it to him. He kicks his clothes aside into an easily gathered pile near the door. Then the guy gets undressed and he’s built like a wall, all heavy muscle and rippling abs. He also has a tiny penis and Will thinks that’s the danger of steroids for you, right there in the flesh.

The guy grabs his tiny little pecker and thrusts his hips at Will. “You wanna suck this? I bet you wanna suck this cock. You’re a cock slut, aren’t you? Mhmm, gonna slobber all over my rod with that pretty little mouth of yours, whore.”

Will clenches his jaw. He _hates_ the dirty talkers, especially the ones who talk to him like it’s all he can do not to fall on his knees and _beg_ for the honor of sucking their dick.

“Tell me how big this cock is, boy,” the man says. “Tell me it’s the biggest one you’ve ever seen.”

Well, someone has inadequacy issues. Will’s eyes narrow further, but he opens his mouth to answer him, he’s gonna tell him he’s never seen a dick that big before. It’s just _huge_ , so huge it’s downright awe-inspiring.

What comes out instead is, “I’ve seen bigger. Much bigger, actually.” He cringes the second it’s out of his mouth because that is _not_ what he meant to say.

The next second, one of those ham-sized fists is smashing into the side of his face and Will’s head is reeling. He still tries to get up and makes it, too, but he’s shoved hard and lands on the floor with a thud that takes his breath away.

“The fuck did you say to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Will says around the blood in his mouth.

His apology only seems to make the man angrier and he kicks him hard in the ribs. Will gasps and tries to draw a deep breath, but he cannot.

This is bad, shit, this _so bad_. He shouldn’t have gotten in the car with this guy or with _any_ john, not in the mood he was in. Now he’s not thinking about Spark or the judge though, he’s not thinking about how much of an idiot he is. He’s thinking about Stevie, stabbed to death in a motel room. He’s thinking he doesn’t even have a picture or a clue if Mack or Spark want to try and find his next of kin.

“You’ve seen bigger, huh? You’ve seen _bigger_?!” he screams at Will. “I’ll show you how big it is, you smart mouthed piece of shit fucking whore.”

He punches Will again, but somehow Will still manages to get to his feet and tries to run for the door. The john grabs him by the hair and pulls him up short, yanking a knot in the back of Will’s head. He feels a clump of hair come out when the man jerks his hand back. There is no doubt that he took scalp with him, Will can feel the warm wetness on the back of his head as it turns cool in the air conditioned room. In almost the same motion, he grabs Will’s shoulders and spins him around to face him. Will stares at his violently red face and feels like the world stops moving in that second.

It jumps back into wild motion when the john hits him twice more in quick succession, _pop-pop_. Blood gushes out Will’s nose and mouth. Another punch and he feels the skin above his right eyebrow split. Another and a cut opens up along his cheek. Another and Will’s world dims to a dull grey tinted with too bright spots of color that dance in his eyes. He falls to his knees even though he’s telling himself to _stay up, stay up_. He just cannot do it. He moans in pain and tries to scream, but he has no voice; it has been drowned out by blood. All that comes out is a pitiful croak of sound.

For a second, he thinks it’s over and just kneels there for a moment before trying to push himself up from the floor. A foot connects with the front of his shoulder so hard Will half expects to feel something break. He tries to scream again—scream in pain, scream in fear, scream for help, but all he gets out is a choked, “Ah-ah,” of sound.

“I’m not done with you, motherfucker,” the man says. “I paid for a fuck and I’m gonna get a fuck.”

He grabs Will and shoves him back then rolls him over onto his belly. Will tries to hit him, tries to fight back, but he can barely see. He’s got blood in one eye and they’re both watering. He can feel the one with the cut in the eyebrow swelling already, the skin growing hot-cold and tight. When fighting doesn’t work, he attempts to drag himself away, but the grabs his ankle and pulls him back. Then he’s got both hands on insides of Will’s knees, forcing his legs open. Will knows what’s happening and he still tries to fight him as hard as he can because _no_. The john’s too strong though and Will’s blowing bloody bubbles out of his busted nose.

“No, please don’t,” he slurs. “Please. No.”

“Worthless fucking nothing,” is the man’s response.

He spits on Will, he feels the hot little gob land in the middle of his back. Will is too numb with fear to cry and all he wants is for this to _stop_. But then it starts in earnest. He feels hot, heavy weight crushing him into the carpet and making it even harder to breathe than it was before. Then there is a burning, painful ache between his legs. The man’s penis may’ve been small, but it really wasn’t _that_ small, it was at least four inches long, maybe five. Maybe Will only thought it was small because he was in a mean frame of mind. It feels like a concrete post right now as it batters its way inside of him over and over again.

He’s being pushed along the carpet, the skin on his torso is starting to chafe and burn with it. Will clenches his fists, swallows his own blood and waits for it to be over. He can’t get away from him, he knows that. His mouth is too full of blood for him to really scream and he can’t draw breath enough to do so anyway. No one would come if he did somehow manage it. This is not a place where people rush to the rescue or even call the cops about a disturbance. This man _will_ kill him if he gives him even the smallest excuse. So, he closes his eyes and endures the agony the best he can because it’s the only way he can think to survive. 

Suddenly, it’s over and Will is barely aware of it until he feels the heavy weight lift from his back. He still dares not move, just lies there and listens to the sound of his heart beating too fast. He tries not to feel the pain, but it’s aching and torn and there is wetness leaking down between his legs. He bites his split lip against a whimper of pain and humiliation. Hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he won’t let them fall, not until he knows the john is gone. He will not give this man the satisfaction of seeing his tears.

“Not so small now, is it, whore?” the man asks. He slaps Will’s ass and he bites his lip even harder. “It’s big enough to tear your ass up.” He slaps Will’s ass again then moves away, only pausing long enough to kick him high up on his left hip. Will utters a soft cry of pain and ignores the way his body is starting to shake as shock sets in.

The man redresses and leaves Will alone after that. He lies there quietly, bleeding and shaking as he finally lets the tears come. He drifts for a while, somewhere far away where none of this awfulness is. He sinks into it by degrees until only the dimmest awareness of his pain and shame and horror and anger are there.

His mind is a wasteland. His body is a crime scene.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sometime later, Will knows he needs to get up; knows he needs help. He can’t hide inside his mind forever and he makes himself drag his hurting body to his pile of clothes by the door. He’s got a cheap, pay as you go, cell phone in his pants pocket. The only numbers in it are Spark’s and Mack’s. When he finally fumbles his phone out, he calls the only one of those numbers that matters.

“Where the fuck are you?” Spark’s voice coming down the line into his ear makes Will shake and go limp with relief at the same time. “Will? Hey, you there?”

“Spark, I need help,” Will says. His voice comes out mushy and slurry sounding. His whole face throbs and he can only open his right eye about halfway now it’s so swollen. “Something… happened.”

“Where are you?”

“In room one-thirty-nine,” Will gets out. “I can’t… Can you come get me?”

“I’m comin’ now,” Spark says. “Don’t you hang up on me. What happened?”

“I was rude,” Will says after a minute. Spark is panting in his ear, breathing deep and heavy. He’s running. “Told the guy… I said something mean. Little dick, wanted me to say it was so big. Said it wasn’t. Guess he showed me.”

“What’d he do to you?” Spark pants in his ear.

“Oh, you know, _stuff_ ,” Will says. He feels sleepy and woozy and so tired all over that all he wants to do is sleep until this quits being real. He’s feeling pleasantly calm right now, half-numb and not really _here_. “He showed me how big it was.” Something occurs to Will and he wrinkles his nose, which makes him suck in a sharp, pained breath. “He spit on me.” He says it almost wonderingly.

“Shit, oh shit, Will,” Spark says. “Hang on, I’m almost there.”

“I’ll be here,” Will says. It’s almost conversational, but then he drops the phone and when he tries to get it, he only manages to push it away. “Well,” he says and then he curls himself into a ball and listens to the tinny, far away sound of Spark calling his name.

The next thing he really knows is someone saying, “Oh my fucking God.”

Will jumps and tries to move away when he feels hands on him, but then he hears, “It’s just me, Will. It’s just me.”

Will opens his one good eye then and sees Spark kneeling on the floor by his head. “He hurt me,” Will tells him. “Hurt me.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Spark says. He lightly touches Will’s face and tips his head back for a better look. “ _Fuck_.” Then he takes a deep breath and pushes Will’s matted, blood and sweat clumped hair back from his forehead. “It’s not that bad.”

“Liar,” Will says. “I can feel it. I could feel it. He was in me and I could feel the way it— It felt like a knife. I have a headache.”

“I know, but that’s okay, I’m gonna take you home and give you some ibuprofen,” Spark says. He’s touching Will lightly all over, looking for damage and when he’s done, he rocks back on his heels and scrubs at his face. “Shit, Will, _fuck_. Why’d you fuck with that guy, huh? Why’d you say that shit?”

“Dirty talker. I _hate_ dirty talkers, they’re… stupid,” Will says. “I was in a bad mood and it just… fell out of my mouth. _Plop_ , there it was and I couldn’t take it back. Then he hit me and… ta-da.” He starts shaking again as the images roll through his head like a slideshow from hell and he makes a hiccoughing sound in his throat when his breath hitches around the knot there. “I’m sorry, Spark. I’m _sorry_. It’s not my fault though, I didn’t… I _didn’t mean to say that_.”

“Even if you had meant to say it, this still ain’t your fault,” Spark says. “Don’t you think like that and don’t apologize to me either.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “If I ever find him, I’m gonna kill him.”

“Okay,” Will says with sharp vehemence. “Skin the piece of shit and bring me his dick when you’re done so I can burn it.”

“I can do that,” Spark says. On the surface, he sounds calm, but Will can hear the undercurrent of blind rage in his voice that gives the calm tone a raspy edge.

Will wants the son of a bitch to die. He _deserves_ to die after someone cuts his tiny little penis-knife off and crams it up _his_ ass. He wants him to know what it’s like to be afraid and feel small, to feel like you’re not a man at all. To feel like less than even a fuck doll and just become a hole to dig into to see how much it’ll bleed. He drifts for a minute, carried away on the bloody tide of his murder fantasy. It’s a nice preoccupation and distraction from all the _real_ staining his eyes and purpling his skin.

“Can we go home now?” Will finally asks.

“Yeah, yeah we can,” Spark says. “C’mon, let me get some clothes on you, pants at least and we’ll go.”

“I just wanna sleep,” Will says.

“You can’t, not yet,” Spark says. “Your pupils are all funny lookin’, which means you’ve got a concussion.”

“Can sleep with a concussion, just gotta wake me up every ten minutes or so,” Will says.

“That so?”

“It is very so,” Will confirms. “Home. _Please_.” It’s rising and falling in him, pleasantly flat detachment one second, stress the next. Then the next it’s fear in a choking surge and then the next it’s nothing but burning self-hate.

Spark gets his pants on him and apologizes over and over because Will gasps and whimpers in pain with every movement. He’s found his voice again, now that he doesn’t need it and every sound out of his mouth is one of utter misery. When he’s done dressing him, Spark half carries him out of the room and Will hangs his head, breathing sharply and quickly through his busted nose.

“Is it broken?” he thinks to ask.

“Is what broken?”

“My nose.”

“No, it’s swollen and bloody, but it’s not broken,” Spark says. “Maybe fractured, but I dunno. You need to see a doctor.”

“Nope,” Will says immediately. His fingers on Spark’s shoulder tighten and dig in. “ _No_.”

The idea of filing a police report does cross his mind, but he barely entertains the notion before throwing it away. The cops won’t do anything because he’s a whore and because he’s a whore, he can’t really call the cops anyway. All they’ll do is pick him for it and no one would believe he’d been raped anyway. Will has come to learn from Spark and the other guys that the general consensus amongst law enforcement and the general public is that a whore _can’t_ be raped.

“Okay,” Spark says. He pauses outside the door of their room and takes another of those deep, shaky breaths. “But look… in a couple of days when you can move around better, we need to go down to the free clinic and get you tested.”

Will mulls that one over for a second. Tested for _what_? When it clicks, he actually jumps and his heart slams into his ribs. He pushes Spark away in his panic and stumbles back, horrified and afraid. Spark moves towards him, but Will holds his shaking hands up to ward him away.

“You got my blood on you,” he says. His voice cracks and almost gives out in his horror, in his shameful guilt. If he’s got something now then Spark’s going to have it to and it’s all Will’s fault because he couldn’t get himself off the floor like a person with a backbone. “Oh no, no, no.” The idea of having anything himself is bad enough—it’s _beyond_ bad—and to think he may’ve just given it to Spark only makes it worse.

“It’s alright,” Spark says. Will can see smears of his blood all over Spark’s white t-shirt. He touched his face and his face is caked with it.

“It’s not alright!” Will yells at him. He backs up another couple of steps and nearly falls when his weak legs threaten to give under him. “I may’ve just _killed_ you because I’m a fucking idiot and went and got myself… got myself…” He shakes his aching head and then drops it down until his chin is nearly resting on his chest. Will breathes in deep, harshly gulping breaths until the air rushing down his throat makes it burn.

“I wasn’t gonna leave you there,” Spark says. “I couldn’t just stand there and look at you like that and then walk away or make you do shit yourself. You couldn’t have, you can barely fuckin’ stand up.”

Even as he says it, Will’s legs give out from under him and he goes down on one knee before Spark manages to grab him. “This is all my fault,” Will says as Spark hefts him up. “I killed you and it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have… I don’t know _why_ I said that.”

“You were in a bad mood and you hate the dirty talkers,” Spark says as he hauls him to the door again and finally gets it unlocked. “My mouth has overloaded my ass more than once, too. A coupla times, I got the same treatment you did.”

“Fuck,” Will says and there he goes, he’s fucking crying again and he feels like the smallest speck of nothing in the world as Spark leads him inside and lays him down on the bed.

Spark lies down beside him, face to face and rests his hand lightly on the side of Will’s neck. “You cry all you need to, alright? For this, crying is about the only thing there is. I’m right here, okay? Right here and I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Will presses his bruised, bloodied face to Spark’s chest and the instant pang of fearful guilt about getting more blood on him makes him pull away again almost as quickly. Spark only lays a hand on his back and says, “It’s okay, cry on me if you want to.”

“Why are you so goddamn noble?” Will snarls at him, angry again for a split second, as he goes back to the warm smell of Spark’s skin.

Alice is on the bed behind him, licking his neck and across his shoulder. She whines with doggy worry and Will waves a hand feebly to try and calm her. She shoves her snout into his palm and licks that, too, offering her own brand of comfort.

“Ain’t you ever heard of a noble savage?” Spark says.

“You’re a self-hating Indian,” Will says without even thinking.

“I ain’t,” Spark says. “I’m just not afraid to make a joke now and then at my own expense. There’s a big difference, Will No Name.”

“Are there any jokes about this then? I need a joke at my own expense right now really badly,” Will says.

Spark strokes a soothing hand down his back and says, “No, I’m sorry, there’s not. If there was, I’d tell you every last fuckin’ one until you’s laughin’ so hard you pissed your pants.”

“I think these pants are ruined,” Will says. His momentary calm threatens to shatter and he makes a strained whining sound through his teeth.

“Yeah, but that’s the great thing about the Goodwill: they got an endless supply of raggedy ass jeans to choose from,” Spark says. He pulls away from Will and stands up. “I got a little first-aid kit thingy in the closet and I’m gonna get a washrag, too. We need to get you cleaned up some.”

Will nods, back to not caring about _anything at all_ , but that calm won’t last and he knows it. So, he just tries to enjoy it while he can. It hurt so bad. He was so scared. The Boxer, Will decides to call him, was so big and mean and he hit _so hard_ that he thought he was going to die. He relives it in high definition and his calm is shattered again and he’s curling himself into a defensive little ball of pain and waiting to be fucked bloody again just because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Just because he got jealous and got his feelings hurt over nothing other than what he wishes was true.

Maybe he did deserve this. If he wasn’t such an idiot and if he didn’t have the world’s worst social skills and the most malfunctioning brain to mouth filter, none of this would’ve happened. He wouldn’t have been beaten. He wouldn’t have been raped. He wouldn’t have—maybe—contracted a disease. He wouldn’t be responsible for—maybe—killing Spark because he was too fucked up to pick himself up off the floor.

Spark gets him to unroll from his shaking ball of nerves and Will lies there half-naked, bloody and ashamed while Spark cleans him up. He tries not to think about it and he does succeed a little bit.

“This is the best I can do with just peroxide and water,” Spark says a little while later. “You need to shower. Can you stand up to do that or you need help?”

“I can stand up,” Will says. The last thing he needs to compound his humiliation is Spark holding him up in the shower.

“Okay,” Spark says. He does help Will up from the bed and he huffs and tries not to cry out with the pain of just that much. “Leave the door open and if you need me, holler.”

“Sure,” Will says. He still wants to go to sleep, his head is killing him and he’s staggering a bit as he walks, but he can do this. If he can’t do this, every ounce of self-reliance and independence will perish with the failure. He _has_ to do this, has to be in control of at least this much.

Once he’s in the shower, Will leans against the wall and shivers even though the water is scalding hot. It stings and burns everywhere it lands on a sore spot, but it doesn’t stop him from nearly scrubbing himself raw. Once he has the washcloth in his hand and lathered with soap, he goes nuts, washing himself in a frenzy of harsh movements that have him stumbling and nearly falling down more than once. He makes a strangled, angry sound that wants to be a scream of rage as he does so. He’s felt dirty so many times once he started doing this that he doesn’t care to recount them, but this… this makes him feel _filthy_. It feels like it is ground into his skin so deeply that is has burrowed _beneath_ it and he has to get it out.

He makes that screaming sound again, only this time he opens his mouth. He nearly falls again and catches himself, with great pain, against the wall under the showerhead. Will bows his head and lets the water stream through his hair and over his face as he screams again.

A minute later, the water cuts off and Will jerks his head up to find Spark and Alice standing there. Spark hands him a towel without a word and Will clumsily wraps it around himself then falls against him. It’s not intentional, it’s just that without the wall to brace him and his anger to hold him up, his body cries uncle and demands Will lay it down.

“I’ve got you, c’mon,” Spark says as he helps him out of the shower stall. “It’s alright, it’s alright. We’re gonna get you dried off and put your plaid pants on then I’m gonna smear antibiotic cream on what I can.”

“Then I can sleep, right?” Will asks.

“For at least ten minutes,” Spark agrees.

“Good,” Will says. “I need this to go away for a little while.” Even his nightmares are preferable to this shit.

“I know,” Spark says and Will knows he means that: he knows.

After he’s dressed and Spark is dabbing him with antibiotic cream, some generic Neosporin-type stuff with pain relievers in it, Will thinks to ask him, “How’d you get in the room?”

Spark pauses and sighs, but he looks Will right in the one eye he can still open—the other has swollen to nothing but a puffy, watery slit. “The door was open.”

“Jesus,” Will says. He hadn’t even noticed and he can’t help but wonder how many people walked by and saw him there, naked and bloody, but obviously alive. People that walked by and saw and chose to do absolutely nothing about it. They had to’ve known and not a single one cared. “I hate people.”

“So do I,” Spark says. “If it’s any consolation or whatever though, it’s late and prolly didn’t nobody see you.”

“Somebody probably did, they just didn’t give a damn,” Will says. He closes his good eye. “Are you done?”

“Yeah,” Spark says. He moves off the bed to go around and pull the rumpled covers up over Will. “You can sleep now.”

“Thank you,” Will says, his voice a shivering husk.

“Welcome,” Spark says.

Will breathes in. Breathes out. Breathes in. Breathes out. He feels his body alive and aching all around him. It’s a torture device of flesh that he cannot hope to escape and thinks that’s a very clever invention indeed.

His blank-paged book has blood splattered on it tonight, but before Will can start screaming, Spark wakes him up. He comes to long enough to dispel the image for a moment.

Once Spark’s sure he’s alright, he runs his hand over Will’s hair and tells him, “Another ten then.”

Will goes gratefully.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day the inevitable happens because it has to happen—hence why it is inevitable. Spark calls Mack and he comes by to check Will out. Will tries to pull away from his hand on his sore face, but Mack makes a clicking sound of negation with his tongue against the back of his teeth. So, Will closes his eyes and endures it. He tells himself he will not shake because of this hand on him.

“He fucked up your face,” Mack says. He sounds annoyed about it. Then he lets Will go and Will sinks back down onto his pillow, cracking his good eye open to watch him. “It doesn’t seem permanent though, so that’s good.”

“Your sympathy is overwhelming, Mack,” Will manages to mutter.

“I don’t like it, but there ain’t shit I can do either, now is there?” Mack asks. “Besides, I’m not the one went out and got myself raped.”

“It’s not his fault,” Spark says.

“Then whose fault is it?” Mack asks.

“How about the motherfucker that _raped_ him?” Spark snaps at Mack. “I dunno about you, but I’d say it’s _his_ fault. You act like this shit never happened to you, Mr. High and Fuckin’ Mighty.”

“Because it didn’t,” Mack snarls.

Will presses deeper into his pillow and silently calls Mack a liar. His whole body is tense, radiating bad memories and worse feelings. He won’t ever admit it though. No, not Mack because he likes to pretend he’s above all of that. He’s better than ever having been a rape victim—and probably more than once, depending how long he was in the game.

“The fuck ever,” Spark spits out. He blows twin plumes of smoke out of his nose and shakes his head.

Mack doesn’t deign to respond to that. Mack’s kind of like Spark in some minor ways, the most major of which being that he actually could’ve been more than what he became. Will doesn’t really like Mack though and doesn’t think he’d ever have been a decent person in the least. He’d have been ruthless and cutthroat regardless of where a better path in life would’ve led him. Will doesn’t feel the least bit sad about Mack and his lot in life. He thinks he got just what he deserved.

When Mack does speak again, he’s looking Will over again with critical blue eyes. “You need to go to a doctor.”

Will shakes his head as Spark says, “I told him that, but he won’t go.”

Mack makes a sound like a growl in the back of his throat, but nods. “That’s his deal then, but I’m _tellin’_ you this: When you’re well enough, you _are_ going to get yourself tested before you go back out. Understand?”

“Aye-aye,” Will mutters. His heart lurches with fear and gnawing worry again. Guilt nibbles at him like tiny fish. 

“You’re a real smart ass, you know that?” Mack says.

“I’ve been told,” Will says. He rolls over carefully to escape Mack’s piercing stare. He’s lying on his bruised hip and it’s an awful pain, but he will not roll back over so those cold eyes can catalog and appraise what his worth still is.

“It’s probably what got you into trouble in the first place,” Mack says. He almost says it like he’s trying to give Will advice, which only pisses him off.

“Shut up, Mack, Jesus Christ,” Spark says. “Why’re you bein’ such a dick to him?” 

“I gotta worry about number one and fine, I’m sorry it happened and all, but he needs to learn to watch his fuckin’ mouth,” Mack says.

“Oh, okay then, you’re sorry at least,” Spark says. “I keep forgettin’ your name’s really _Saint_ Mack. Your charitable goodness is so goddamned overwhelming though that I don’t know how I did that.”

“This fuckin’ head case’s shit is not my problem,” Mack says. He’s getting mad, Will can hear it in his voice. “If he didn’t make me so much money I’d cut his ass loose real quick. As for you, Spark, you need to watch _your_ smart ass mouth with me. I let you get away with a lot of shit because you make me lotsa scratch, too, but you’re on thin ice with me and have been since you dragged him over to my place.”

“Now I’m scared,” Spark says. Will supposes this is what job security looks like with prostitutes—they can talk back to their pimps and not worry about getting kicked to the curb for it.

“You damn well better be. You keep this up and you’re gonna be out on your ass,” Mack says. “I take care of you and him—all of you fuckers—and this ingratitude is startin’ to piss me the fuck off.”

“Boo hoo for you,” Will mumbles.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” Mack asks.

“I didn’t stutter,” Will says. He is not in the mood for this blowhard son of a bitch stomping around on his eggshell calm and he wants him to leave.

“You keep talkin’ and a black eye’s gonna be the least of your worries,” Mack snarls. He’s standing closer to the bed. “You’ve been a pain in my ass since the day you showed up at my door. What I tell you? If you didn’t make me so much money…”

“Leave him alone, Mack,” Spark says. “Fuckin’ _Christ_ , he’s all messed up and miserable and you just gotta stick your fingers in and dig around, don’t you?”

“I can do whatever I wanna do with either one of you,” Mack says.

“Yeah, yeah, we _belong_ to you, I got it. You make a point of remindin’ me at least once a week,” Spark says. “I don’t give a shit about that, but you’re pissin’ me off ‘cause really… _Look at him_. You’re seriously gonna stand there and threaten him right now? Fuckin’ coward.”

“That’s enough out of you,” Mack says.

“It ain’t never enough,” Spark says.

Will tries to squeeze his eyes closed, but it hurts like hell to do it. He knows what’s coming and when he hears Spark curse, he knows it’s already happened.

“That’s for your damn mouth,” Mack says. There’s another meaty thwump and then, “And that’s for your little boyfriend.”

“Alright,” Spark says. There’s an echoing thump and then Mack curses. “That’s for my damn mouth, too.” Another thunk follows. “And that one’s for my little boyfriend, you hateful piece of shit.”

“Motherfucker!” Mack bellows and then there’s a heavy thud.

Will burrows under the blanket, trying to escape the noise and what he knows is happening. Alice is pressed close to his side and shivering with unhappiness and stress. Will makes himself sit up, pushing himself up on his side and watches as Mack and Spark go out the door. Mack pushes him down, but Spark rolls back to his feet almost instantly. Will makes himself get out of the bed and tries to hobble to the door, thinking to help or yell for them to stop it. He only makes it a couple of feet before he has to grit his teeth and can only stand there helplessly.

Mack makes to grab for Spark and when he does, there’s a flashing shine like a fish back and Mack yells. He jerks his arm back and there’s bright red blood running down it. Spark’s grinning at him, teeth bared and white. His eyes are almost black in their anger.

Mack retreats though and paces, holding his arm as he eyes Spark warily. Mack’s got more muscle, but he’s nowhere near as fast as Spark. He doesn’t have a knife or his gun with him and even if he did have a knife, Will’s got a feeling he wouldn’t be nearly as fast with it as Spark is with his. This is so bad though, so fucking bad and Will doesn’t know how to feel about this. Spark just got in a fight because of him—he just fought _for_ him and it’s a good-terrible kind of realization. It hurts just as much as it elates and Will doesn’t know what to do other than watch them staring each other down.

Finally, Mack points at Spark and says, “That thin ice you’re on… you’re gonna fall through it one of these days, you fuckin’ bastard.”

“I look forward to drownin’ then,” Spark says. “See you tonight.”

“We’re not done here,” Mack splutters.

He won’t get rid of Spark because he can’t replace him and that is the only thing that’s saving his ass right now. Will knows it, Mack knows it and Spark knows it. A scuffle is one thing, but Spark just cut the hell out of his arm and he’s still walking away with all of his teeth. Mack’s as afraid of losing his other top earner even more than he is afraid of Spark’s wickedly sharp knife.

“Yeah, we are,” Spark says. “I’ll come by when I’m done tonight, but for right now, we’re through. See ya later, _Saint_ Mack.”

Mack’s not quite finished with Will yet and turns to pin him down where he’s standing hunched over, hand bracing his weight on the foot of the bed. “You have a week. Get to the clinic, get your shit sorted out and if you’re clean then it’s back to work. You got all that?”

Will glares at him the best he can, but when he nods it seems to satisfy Mack. He walks away then, giving Spark a last sidelong glance.

Spark slides back into the room and closes the door. “That goddamned fucking asshole!” he yells and then goes to help Will. “What’re you doin’?”

“I was gonna… I wanted to try and help… I…” Will says as Spark leads him back around the bed so he can climb in again and lie down.

“Don’t you worry about me, Will No Name,” Spark says. “I’ve got this.”

“He hit you,” Will says.

“Punched me in the chest a couple times is all,” Spark says. “He ain’t gonna mess up my face. He’d lose money that way.”

“He’s so sweet,” Will says as he curls himself back into a ball again. It’s the most comfortable position he’s found to lie in since last night.

“Ain’t he just?” Spark says. His laugh is rasping and bitter as he goes back to sit in the recliner. “I’ll go out for food before I go out and we can eat.”

“Do you have to go?” Will asks.

“You know I do,” Spark says.

That’s the end of it and Will knows it, so he falls quiet after that, watching Spark in the chair. The room is dark and cold now that the door has been shut again. It’s womblike in its comfort and Will keeps watching Spark until he falls asleep again.

The next thing he knows is Spark’s hand on his shoulder. He comes awake with a sound of fear and jerks away, which hurts like hell.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Spark says. “It’s just me. I’ve got food. I went and got you some moo goo gai pan and extra egg rolls. You need to sit up so you can eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Will says. All he wants to do is sleep until this goes away. His book is there and there’s the smell of his own blood permeating his dreams to go with it, but it’s still better than the stark reality of wakefulness.

“Don’t matter, you still gotta eat,” Spark says. “C’mon, at least try to eat half of it. You can’t quit eatin’ or livin’ because of this shit. I know you may want to, but if you lay down and die then you let that sorry fucker win, you dig? I got some ice for your face, too. I shoulda thought about that last night and I didn’t, but I’ve got it now, so c’mon.”

Will gives him a miserable look and Spark strokes his hair, watching him carefully. Spark isn’t like Will, but being what he is, he does know how to read people pretty well. It’s a skill hookers, strippers and every other kind of sex worker picks up rather quickly. If they don’t learn to do it then they’re a dead body in an alleyway waiting to happen. Every potential trick is a book that must be read as quickly and thoroughly as possible before they get in the car or go in the back room with them for a private dance. Will’s gotten good at it, too, in more than one way because of whatever it is he’s got. He didn’t even bother to read The Boxer though and now here he is, proof of what happens when you get it wrong or don’t try at all. And they do get it wrong sometimes, every last one of them and usually bad things happen.

Will catches freaks, kinkers and fetishists left and right, but he still gives them the once over to make sure they’re not _violent_ , to make sure they won’t _truly_ hurt him. He tries to make sure they won’t do something like _this_ to him. It is his fault he went with The Boxer because he didn’t do his job and he ended up on the floor with one eye swelled shut and an ache low in his belly that doesn’t seem to want to stop.

Thinking all of that has him bowing his head with shame and to escape Spark’s dark, sympathetic eyes. He doesn’t deserve this sympathy, this _care_. He’s an idiot that can’t keep his mouth shut and got exactly what was coming to him. Spark should be furious with him; Will’s certainly angry with himself.

Spark only strokes his hand over the back of Will’s bowed head and on down his neck. He curls his warm fingers loosely against the skin and kneads gently, gently at the stiff muscles there. His kindness makes Will tremble with guilt and shame. It’s made even worse by the fact he wants nothing more than to curl around Spark and hide beneath his thick curtain of hair until the world simply _disappears_.

Spark lets him sit like that for a couple of minutes, then he says, “Don’t do this to yourself. I know exactly what you’re doin’ and it ain’t right. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, you hear me? _Nothin’_.”

“He did this to me,” Will says. “He did this to me because—”

“He did it ‘cause some people just want to destroy beautiful things,” Spark cuts in. “Ain’t no other reason for it than that.”

Will’s heart gives a painful, stumbling lurch at what Spark has just said. He thinks he’s beautiful and Will doesn’t know what to do or say to that. He thinks he’s ugly on the inside and fucked up in the head. He’s never going to be sane or even all that functional really, he doesn’t think. But here’s this man telling him he’s beautiful and he means it because Spark _can_ lie and he does it well—but he doesn’t lie to Will—at least not when it counts. All he wants to do is tell him how wrong he is to think such things and he wants to thank him, thank him, thank him for not letting him feel so alone and worthless, too.

“I’m not,” Will says. “I’m _not_ … I’m not really anything at all.”

“Then you sure don’t know much,” Spark says. He takes his hand away from Will’s neck and tugs a lock of his hair gently before moving away to get the food and ice. This conversation, like most of the others that feel like they may go _somewhere_ , is over and Will won’t be able to get it back because Spark won’t give it. “C’mon, sit up and eat, man. Don’t make me do the choo-choo thing and feed you myself.”

“You wouldn’t,” Will says. He risks a glance at Spark to see if he’s serious. He’s standing beside the bed and looking right down at him, but Spark’s face is as unreadable as it ever is even with such a clear line of sight.

“Right now I would,” Spark says as he sits on the edge of the bed. Alice sits happily on the floor and pants expectantly. She’s developed quite the fondness for egg rolls.

“Why do you do this?” Will asks.

“I ain’t got nothin’ better to do,” Spark says.

He smiles at Will and Will snorts, which hurts his sore nose and he winces, but pushes himself up into a sitting position. He tilts to one side to put more weight on his unbruised hip, but it’s still uncomfortable. He thinks he’ll be able to manage though, at least for as long as it takes for him to eat.

“You just lied to me,” Will says. “It’s the first time you’ve ever _really_ done that.”

“Well, it ain’t much of a lie anyway,” Spark says. “It’s more like a joke gone wrong.”

Will huffs out a sound of tired amusement and takes his package of extra egg rolls. He calls Alice over and gives her one of them and Spark looks at him for that. “I wish you wouldn’t feed her like that,” he says. “She’s gonna get spoiled to that shit and one day when you least expect it, you or me’s gonna end up with a lapful of dog, stealin’ our food.”

“That’s okay,” Will says.

“You say,” Spark says right back. “My food ain’t for the dog, man.”

“Alice, should you ever decide to rob either of us of our dinner, make sure it’s me,” Will says. “Spark’s too stingy for him to ever forgive you such a trespass.”

Alice cocks her head, thumps her tail on the floor and resumes waiting for another handout.

“Huh,” Spark says consideringly. “Maybe your real last name is Doolittle.”

“Maybe,” Will says. He takes a bite of his food and winces at the way the salt and heat of it burns his busted lips and the bitten inside of his cheek, but he eats anyway. “Maybe I talk to animals and they talk back. I think I’d like that.”

“You talk to me, true enough,” Spark says.

“You’re not an animal,” Will says.

Spark raises an eyebrow at him then opens his mouth and barks. It’s a surprisingly real sounding bark, real enough that Alice pricks her ears up and jumps to her feet. She goes over to sniff Spark with a curious wag of her tail. Will blinks at him and laughs and laughs until it makes his bruised ribs howl with pain.

“Told ya,” Spark says with a grin after Will’s laughter has tapered off to soft wheezing.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Will says. “It hurts.”

“You need to laugh, even if it does hurt,” Spark says. “But I’ll leave you alone for now.”

“How’d you do that anyway?” Will asks a minute later.

“I got mad skills,” Spark says. “What can I say?”

“There’s not much else to say, I guess,” Will says.

The double meaning is not lost on either of them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

That night before he goes out, Spark takes Alice to do her business. When he comes back, he dabs Will’s cuts and scrapes with more antibiotic cream after he’s taken another shower where he scrubs himself raw.

Will lies there and watches Spark and neither of them talk about how Spark had to come get him again because he’d started screaming like he did the night before. Something about being alone under the needle hot sting of the shower leaves Will feeling trapped and helpless, it wakes up the rage inside of him about what was done. He punched the wall tonight and Spark calmly dabs antibiotic cream on his split knuckles and doesn’t say a word about it.

“You’re younger than me,” Will says as Spark is gently smoothing the cream over the cut in his eyebrow.

“You are kinda old,” Spark says. It’s a noncommittal reply that doesn’t really invite further discussion, like he knows where this might be going.

Will scoffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t know how old he is, but he really isn’t that old or if he is then he has aged incredibly well. He remembers Spark saying he was about 34 that first night at Mack’s and Will thinks that’s probably about right, give or take a couple of years maybe.

“How old are you anyway?” Will asks him.

“Twenty four,” Spark says.

He’s been out here on the street, selling himself, for almost a decade. Having an actual timeline, knowing how long it’s been since Spark’s innocence was so effectively lost is another walloping slab of hurt for Will. It should have never happened, his anger about it surprises him, but he can’t help it. Every time he looks at this man who never had the chance to be much of a boy, he feels it. He wishes he could take Spark and himself, Alice and the bloodstained recliner and just _go_ somewhere far away where they could start all over again. Will wishes he could take care of and protect Spark the way he has done for him. It’s one more feeling of helplessness that Will chokes on a little bit.

“You’re younger than me,” Will says again while Spark carefully puts some ointment on the crack in the corner of his mouth. “You’re twenty four and you take care of _me_. I feel like it should be the other way around or that I ought to at least be able to give something back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Spark says. “I took care of people when I’s a kid and I can still take care of people. You give me enough—conversation and company I can stand. You’re always interesting and you’re just… I dunno. You’re weird.”

“You say I’m weird like it’s a compliment,” Will says.

“Well, the way I mean it makes it a compliment, sure enough,” Spark says.

He scratches the top of Will’s head lightly—he’s realized Will actually likes having his head scratched; it makes him feel warm and relaxed, comfortably drowsy. Will’s eyes slip shut even as he thinks it and Spark laughs, but it’s not a mean or mocking laugh.

He takes his hand away a minute later and says, “I gotta go. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Be safe,” Will says. He does not beg Spark to stay here with him like he wants to do.

“Always,” Spark says.

He slips out the door and into the steamy summer night, leaving Will alone with Alice who hops on the bed and licks his arm until Will gives in and pets her. He tries to sleep, but without Spark there, the nightmares tear him from his rest. He dreams of The Boxer raping him again, except he’s stabbing him while he fucks him and Will can only endure the pain. Thousands of red butterflies with dripping wings pour from the deep wounds in his body and Will watches them go.

He awakes with his heart screaming out for something that he thinks is called peace. The rest of the night, he lies in the dark coolness of the room, only stirring when Spark comes in to take Alice out again. He sits with Will a few minutes, neither of them talking, but when he leaves again, he brushes his fingers through Will’s hair: _You’re okay. It’s all okay._

Will tries very hard to believe him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Spark comes home to stay, he’s pissed because Mack took almost all of the money he made that night. Apparently he needed stitches in his arm where Spark cut him and decided that Spark was going to pay the bill. Will hates Mack a little bit and twists around in bed to lay his head on Spark’s leg.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is my—”

“Don’t,” Spark says. “Don’t you dare.”

So, Will doesn’t dare and after Spark’s gone to take his shower and come back again, he still doesn’t. He just curls up next to him with Alice a warm weight against his back and finally sleeps.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The swelling in Will’s eye goes down by the third day and he can open it almost all the way again by that evening. It is still a deep, eggplant color of black-purple, but it at least matches his other eye in size as well as color now. It’s still miserable to move, the bruise on his hip is swollen and hot to the touch, a knot left under his skin from the hard kick. His ribs are mottled shades of blue that fades to greenish on the edges and purple that fades to reddish. He can still move easier now than he could the first two days, even though it’s still painful when he tries to straighten up all the way. So, he walks around hunched over slightly on himself and putters around the room so he doesn’t get too stiff. Some movement is a good thing, it keeps his muscles stretched out and makes him feel a bit better, so long as he doesn’t overdo it.

Spark comes in one night kind of early and sprawls out across the bed. “The judge called tonight,” he says.

Will’s stomach flips as he remembers his jealousy and the trouble it got him into. It still doesn’t stop it from rising back up in his throat like an emerald serpent.

“When are you leaving?” Will makes himself ask.

“I’m not,” Spark says. “I told him I couldn’t go, that somethin’ came up and I can’t leave.”

“Me,” Will says with a frown. Jealous or not he’s ashamed of himself. This could’ve been a good opportunity for Spark, but he had to go and get himself raped and fuck everything up. “I came up.”

“Losin’ the money sucks ass, no shit,” Spark says. “This is more important though.”

“I’m—”

“ _I’m_ gettin’ tired of you apologizing to me all the time,” Spark says. He pats Will’s leg to take the bite out of the words. “It was my choice, my say. I picked you and that’s the end of it.”

He picked Will. Will who is jealous and pathetic and can’t have what he wants. He still came out on top, still won out over the judge, but only because Spark feels sorry for him. He doesn’t want Spark’s pity, but he’s sickly glad to have it anyway if that means he won’t end up left alone all weekend like this. Will hates himself just a little bit more because of it.

All he says is, “Okay.”

Spark nods and then stretches with a tired grumble. “I get so tired of being fucked sometimes,” he says abruptly. Will jumps a little and looks at him curiously. Spark shrugs and waves a hand around as though he’s clearing the air. “I get tired of it,” he repeats. “I’d rather be the one doin’ the fucking, but it ain’t my call and most of ‘em don’t come out looking to _get_ fucked. I guess the downside is that if they did I’d be kinda screwed, true enough. I mean, some of ‘em I couldn’t get it up for anyway ‘cause _damn_ , some of ‘em’s got a face only a mother could love. Hell, sometimes even that’s doubtful. Then of course I’d just get too tired after awhile anyways, even if every last one of ‘em looked like Ezra Miller.”

“Who’s Ezra Miller?” Will asks.

Spark laughs. “That’s what you take from that, huh?” He shrugs again. “Ezra Miller’s hot, that’s that.”

“That tells me nothing,” Will says.

“It oughtta tell ya enough,” Spark says.

“Not really,” Will says.

“He’s an actor,” Spark says. “I saw his face on a movie poster in that rental place by the Goodwill. Couple weeks later I had a name to go with the face ‘cause I picked up a magazine in the convenience store, it was talkin’ about that same movie. He’s uh… _pretty_.”

“You like pretty boys,” Will says.

“Who doesn’t?” Spark asks.

Will shrugs and doesn’t say anything. He is all too aware that he is not a pretty boy. Cute—maybe—but not pretty.

“Anyways,” Spark continues after Will contributes nothing further. “I get tired of bein’ fucked, that’s all. Sometimes, a lot of the time, actually, I’d rather be the one doin’ the fuckin’.”

“So you’re a… uh… ya know,” Will says.

“Top,” Spark supplies for him with a smirk.

Will, for all that he’s a whore, does not really like talking about sex that much. Spark’s noticed and thinks it’s funny, which Will supposes it really is.

“Yeah, that,” Will says.

“What’re you?” Spark asks.

Will fidgets because _wow_ he doesn’t want to have this conversation at 4 AM. Or ever, actually. “I… um… I don’t know,” he says anyway. “I’ve done both, but I um… the other way doesn’t feel… I mean. Damnit. I don’t really like either, not usually, but the other way is preferable. The um… the opposite of what you would prefer.” Will huffs out a breath and fidgets some more. No, he does not want to talk about this. “Can we not talk about this, please?”

“Sure,” Spark says around his laughter. “I don’t think we really are anyway, what with your tongue bein’ all tied and shit.”

“I just would rather not discuss… work,” Will says.

“I wasn’t discussing _work_ ,” Spark says. “I was discussing what you _like_ , which ain’t got shit to do with work. Don’t nobody like that shit, I don’t think.”

“Well, I don’t want to discuss what I _like_ ,” Will says. “I barely even know and besides, I don’t…”

He trails off with another frustrated huff of breath. The only thing Will likes, at least when it comes to people anyway, is Spark. The answer to that, he supposes, is that no, he does not want to top him. Will refuses to say anything of the sort out loud though because this conversation, such as it is, has already seriously infringed upon his comfort zone and anything more than this and he’ll pop.

“Yeah, like I said, you’re kinda uptight,” Spark says.

“You said that two or three months ago,” Will says.

“And it’s still true now,” Spark says. He’s smirking when he pats Will’s leg again and gets up. “I’m goin’ to shower now. You feel good enough to get up and make some noodles while I do that?”

“Yeah,” Will says.

“Awesome,” Spark says.

Then he’s up and gone, leaving Will to make the noodles. That requires him to go into the bathroom while Spark’s in there so he can rinse out the coffee carafe. Spark is singing in the shower just like he always does and it makes Will grin even though he doesn’t understand a word of what he’s saying. He’d ask, but Spark doesn’t like talking about those things and because of that, Will tries to limit his questions about his past. Besides, he thinks as he goes back with the carafe full of clean water, he likes the mystery of whatever Spark’s saying better than actually knowing. That’s rare for him, but in this instance, it holds true. He leaves the bathroom door open just a crack, just enough that the sound of Spark’s singing carries out into the main room with him. Alice sits by the door with her head cocked and tail brushing lightly against the carpet as she listens, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~

On the fifth day, Will is able to move around even better. He can even straighten up most of the way again. His face is still a mess, the bruises are fading, but it’s going to take a couple of weeks for them and the two cuts to completely disappear. His mouth is still all split up, too, but the cuts there no longer crack open and bleed if he opens his mouth too wide, so they’re almost healed. His nose doesn’t hurt anymore at all, which is a small favor, but one Will’s glad for.

Spark watches him moving around the room that afternoon and lights a cigarette. He lets the smoke out on a sigh and says, “Look, I think it’s about time we get down to the free clinic. You’re moving around okay now and the longer you put it off, the harder it’s gonna be to go.”

Will freezes in the act of pulling a clean shirt over his head and his eyes widen. His heart starts beating too fast and he swallows hard. He makes himself pull his shirt the rest of the way on and then stands there, staring at the floor with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I know,” he whispers to the dirty carpet. “I know.”

“So, let’s go,” Spark says.

Will shakes his head once, but then he nods. He’s got a lump in his throat, dread and fear and more guilt on top of all the rest. “I don’t want to,” he says, still whispering. “I don’t want to know if I’m gonna die and if I’ve killed you, too.”

“But you need to,” Spark says.

He lays a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder and he jumps with a startled sound in his throat. He doesn’t even know when Spark moved; he’s so damned quiet and Will has a tendency to get lost inside his head on top of that. Even before he was raped, Spark often sneaked up on him accidentally and made him half come out of his skin sometimes.

“I know,” Will whispers again. He reaches up to touch Spark’s hand on his shoulder and finds a small speck of relief when Spark squeezes his fingers gently. Will clears his throat and nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Spark says.

He leads the way out of the room and Will follows him into the bright light of day for the first time in almost a week. The light is nearly blinding and leaves him feeling unbelievably exposed. He focuses on Spark’s heather blue t-shirt to try and cut the glare from his eyes. His braid sways like a silent metronome and Will allows it to lull him as they go to the bus stop.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When the clinic calls Will with his test results, he has just come inside with Alice. The sound of his phone ringing makes him jump because no one ever calls him. He’s half afraid it’s Mack demanding he go back to work since he still hasn’t gone and it’s been over a week now. He knows it isn’t Spark because Spark’s sitting in the recliner eating a chili dog.

He answers the phone even though he doesn’t recognize the number and confirms that his name is Will Doe when the woman on the other end asks. He’d been unable to give a last name, of course, so he’d just made one up. The free clinic is the kind of place that at least doesn’t ask a lot of questions, although the harried nurse who took his papers gave him a funny look for it. He used Spark’s social security number as his own and just hoped no one would check. Apparently, no one did and that’s a good thing, too.

Once she has his name, she tells him she’s happy to inform him that all of his tests were negative. He’s clean. Will barely manages to thank her and hang up before he leans back against the door with a heavy thump. His legs go weak and he slides down the door to sit on the floor and puts his face in his hands. He’s laughing and crying at the same time and Spark’s asking him what the fuck is going on when his own phone rings. Will knows who it is most likely and he just makes a hiccupping sound of joy and then tilts his head back against the door to smile up at the ceiling.

He’s not going to die. He hasn’t killed Spark. They’re okay. They’re okay. _They’re okay._

“I get it now,” Spark says when he comes to sit on the floor in front of Will. He bumps Will’s foot with his and when Will looks at him, Spark’s smiling. He radiates relief and his face even looks different. Will hadn’t noticed it before, but now that the tension and stress about it is gone, he can see it.

“We’re okay,” Will says. He’s shaking he’s so relieved and realizing that makes him laugh again. He’s not ashamed or embarrassed about crying over this. These are happy tears, not Will’s-a-headcase or Will’s-a-rape-victim tears. These are _good_ tears.

“I always knew we would be,” Spark says. It’s a small lie from him, but it’s told with good intent and Will doesn’t mind it at all.

Will gets up and goes to hug him, which knocks him over on the floor. He goes with a laugh and Alice comes over, anxious to get in on the floor-fun and that makes Will laugh all over again. He rests his face against Spark’s chest and when he wraps his arms around his back, Will just lies there on top of him for a minute with the dog snuffling and licking the both of them.

This is the best, happiest day he’s had in a very long time.

**IV**

It’s another three days after the call from the free clinic before Mack finally runs out of patience and comes calling. Spark’s been putting him off the best he can, but he can only do so much and Will’s known that all along.

Mack gives him an ultimatum: Either his gets his ass back out there or he can forget having this job. Since it’s the _only_ job Will can get since he has no last name other than the one Spark’s given him, no social security number and no ID, he agrees to go back even though he most definitely does not want to.

The bruises have almost completely faded by now and only the cut in his eyebrow still has a place in the middle that’s scabbed over. He thinks that cut will leave a scar, but it’s not a big scar or disfiguring, so he doesn’t worry about it. The one on his cheek may, but that remains to be seen and even if it does, it’ll be even smaller and fainter than the one in his eyebrow. He can stand up straight again and the soreness has completely left him, save only the mildest little twinge once in a while. He really should’ve gone to a doctor, but everything’s okay overall and so, Will’s not worried about that either.

In short, he has run out of excuses that will satisfy Mack: His face is almost healed, enough the bad light of the sidewalk will hide the yellowish-blue bruises that are left. The ones on his torso are the same. His face and his ass are all that truly matters anyway and since they’re fine (enough) now then there’s nothing he can say.

“Good,” Mack says once Will agrees after a few minutes spent cataloging whether or not he can get out of working a little longer and comes up with nothing. “I want you back out tonight. Take it slow if that’s what you need to do, but you better bring me at least sixty bucks.”

That’s two blowjobs and Will thinks he can at least manage that. Sure, yeah, absolutely, he can do that. He really hopes he’s not bullshitting himself.

Spark asks if he’s sure and Will’s honest with him, he says, “No.”

Spark offers to work extra, to try and squeeze in a couple of extra suck jobs to cover Will’s required sixty. He says he can come back and get Will and they’ll just walk over to Mack’s together, easy peasy. Will refuses to let him do that because he’s done so much for him already; he’s not about to expect him to suck extra dick for him, too. It’s what makes up his mind completely.

“I’ll do it,” Will tells him. He shakes his head when Spark opens his mouth to object. “No,” he says. “I can do this and I will not ask you to do it for me.” He sits for another few minutes then gets up from his chair. “I’m going to go shower. You mind going down to Nelly’s to grab us a bite?”

“Nah, I don’t mind,” Spark says.

He gets up from the foot of the bed and walks by Will with one last concerned glance. Then he’s out the door and gone and Will dutifully goes to take his shower. He’s glad Spark’s not there to hear him screaming this time.

By the time Spark comes back, Will is dressed and back in the recliner, waiting for him. His throat’s a little raw feeling and there’s a soft roar in his ears like static, but mostly he’s okay. He’s a professional. He can do this.

He’s so stressed; he walks right out the door and forgets his cell phone where it’s charging by the burnt out television. When he realizes that, he’s not too bothered, but realizing he also forgot his gum is another story altogether. Spark splits his new pack with him and Will feels a little better about that much at least.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s a thankfully slow night and it takes three hours out for Will to make his required sixty. After he has, Spark tells him to just go on to Mack’s and give the fucker the money, but Will refuses. He can’t do that, if he does it’ll become habitual and besides, what little money he’s saved has dwindled to only about 35 dollars since he was attacked.

Will spends the chunks of time in between thinking about how he and Spark exist on a sublevel of society. They’re the fleas crawling on the creamy underbelly of the nice, neat world out there. Spark stands next to him and doesn’t say much at all, he’s been uncommonly quiet tonight. Then again, they’ve both been really quiet. It’s just that kind of night.

Will’s third trick of the night comes late; they’ve about decided to pack it in when the guy pulls up. He’s a bland looking little man, a little thick through the middle with smeared spectacles and sweat beaded on his upper lip. He’s nervous, but determined. He has a voice that’s almost whiny sounding, thin and a little too high pitched to be considered at all pleasant. He’s going bald. Will notices his neatly trimmed and buffed fingernails, his sensible Volvo and the plain, no fuss khaki pants he wears. He’s probably an insurance salesman or agent. Maybe a risk assessor.

Will looks him over, deems him harmless and so agrees to go with him.

The major downside to this little man is that he wants to fuck Will. He tells Will this after he’s rented the motel room and they’re already inside. Will asked back at the street light and he told Will he wasn’t sure. Now that he’s made up his mind and told Will what he wants, Will has to fight down the urge to just _run_. He tells himself to calm the fuck down and nods his head instead.

“Wear this,” Will says as he passes him the condom. The lube comes next. “Use this and make sure you use enough.”

“Certainly,” the man says in his prim little school marm voice.

Will’s honestly surprised the guy wants to fuck _him_ , instead of it being the other way around. It takes all kinds, he supposes and he also thinks that maybe this fellow just wants to try something new. He doesn’t strike Will as particularly adventurous though. He even made Will wear his seatbelt on the short drive to the Del Mar. So, chances are, he’s actually sticking with what he knows best. Will still finds it peculiar, but he takes his clothes off and asks how the man wants him.

He wants Will on his belly. Of course he does. It doesn’t matter who it is, they almost always want to fuck him from behind. Will knows it’s so they don’t have to see his face, so they don’t have to risk opening their eyes and finding Will looking back at them. They want to pretend, on some level, that he isn’t really a person and if they can see his face, it ruins the illusion. On some quiet, distant level, Will loathes every last one of them for the way they so casually dehumanize him and those like him.

He stretches out on the bed and thinks about how he made his own bed. It’s a thought that haunts him, but it never stops being true. It’s his duty now to lie in it.

Will is so fucking scared though, he can feel his muscles trembling faintly, but the little john turned out the lights and so cannot see that. The only illumination in the room comes from the sodium arc lights in the parking lot. There’s an orange swathe of light angling across the wall because the drapes have been pushed back on one side and left that way. It bends at the corner where that wall meets the one the bed is against and cuts across at an angle up over the bed. It oozes along one side of the mattress, making it look like it is covered in infection.

Will makes himself lie very still, just like he did the night with The Boxer. The little john pushes inside of him with a sound like a mouse squeaking and Will bites his lip against an whimper of discomfort. There’s nothing but phantom pain now, but it still feels real to Will and his discomfort isn’t all about the pain anyway.

It’s about the soft static roar in his ears that’s getting louder. It’s about the way his body rocks and sways against the itchy fabric of the bedspread. It’s about the bizarre and gross sounds the john is making while he fucks him. It’s about the fact Will feels like he’s back on the floor of room 139 as that despicable piece of human shit takes something from him he can never have back again.

Will breathes deeply through his mouth and squeezes his eyes closed. He tells himself to endure this, that it’ll be over soon and he can leave. When this is done then he is done for the night. He can go back to Spark and they can walk to Mack’s to count out to him. Then he—then they—can go home. He tries very hard to tell himself it’s all going to be alright, he only has to take this a little longer and the next time he has to fuck a trick, it’ll be even easier. It’ll eventually cease to matter at all.

He clenches his hands against the bedspread and wishes with all his heart that this would stop. He wants it to stop. He needs it to stop. He wishes for it to be over _right now_.

Will grits his teeth and listens to the panting breaths of the man who’s fucking him and _he wishes_.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will does not reappear by degrees, he snaps awake with a start and becomes aware that he is not at home. He does not know where he is. There is orange light on the wall above his head. There is someone behind him. There is someone _inside_ of him. His heart gallops with fear as he realizes all of this and he bucks hard with a panicked sound in his throat.

“Get off of me!” he screams. “Get the _fuck off of me_!”

He is in a strange place and has come back to himself with a man fucking him. To Will, it is rape. He is being _raped_ on some strange bed in some strange place by some stranger. He is wild with panic and fear and strikes out as he twists himself around. He means to kill this man if he can get his hands around his neck.

The man makes a startled, frightened sound and scrambles off the bed. “What the hell are you doing? I paid you!”

“I don’t know you!” Will screams at him.

“Oh my God, you’re on drugs,” the man says. “Please, don’t hurt me. _Please_. Just… keep the money and let me go.”

He is a small, rotund shadow, an Alfred Hitchcock in miniature— _Good evening._ In the orange cut darkness of this alien room he holds his hands up in surrender, in a silent act of pleading for himself. Will feels like he is in a nightmare, not the kind he is accustomed to, but one that’s equally terrifying all the same. His initial anger whooshes out of him in a heavy exhalation that ends on a soft sound of fright. He scrambles off the other side of the bed, naked and afraid and crouches there in the corner. He watches the rotund shadow of his rapist dress hastily and practically fall out of the room. His heart is pounding in his ears. 

When the man is gone, Will draws his legs up and presses his face into the backs of his knees. It takes awhile for the shaking to stop enough he thinks he can stand up without falling down. He needs his clothes, he needs to be dressed and they’ve got to be here somewhere. Will doesn’t know where _here_ is. Oh, God, he needs help. He needs help _so bad_.

He finds his clothes, except his underwear, by the light leaking into the room and then twitches the curtains back to look out. He’s in a motel, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t know where he’s at. He knows he’s lost time again and this time something bad has happened to him because of it. He risks opening the door wide enough to look out into the parking lot and when he doesn’t see his vehicle, his fear intensifies. Has he been kidnapped? No, that doesn’t sound right. But he has _no idea_ about anything at all. Panic is a slick, sharp-toothed thing writhing through his insides.

Will goes to the phone on the cheap nightstand and calls the one person he can think to call right now. The first time, it doesn’t work and he’s prompted to enter an area code. That prompt only makes Will’s heart slam against his ribs even harder. He dials again with shaking fingers and clutches the receiver so hard the plastic squeaks faintly. On the other end of the line, the phone begins to ring.

“Hello?” Hannibal’s sleepy sounding voice answers after the third ring.

“I don’t know where I’m at,” Will says. His voice cracks and he clears his throat to try again. “I need help, please, help me.”

“Will, is that you?” Hannibal says. He sounds much more awake now.

“I lost time again. I don’t know where I am, but I’m outside the area code. I don’t know where my car is. I don’t… _I don’t know anything_ ,” Will says in a panicked rush.

“You must try to calm down,” Hannibal says soothingly. “Try to calm down and think.”

“I _can’t_ calm down!” Will yells at him. “I’m lost and I came out of it with… with… there was a _guy_ and he was… Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“Okay, give me a moment to check the caller ID, perhaps I will recognize the area code,” Hannibal says. “Take a deep breath for me, please.”

Will takes a deep breath while Hannibal checks the area code on his caller ID. When he comes back on the line, he says, “Thankfully, I do know that area code. You are in Chicago.”

“What?” Will says. “How the hell did I get from Virginia to Chicago?”

“Will,” Hannibal says patiently. “You’ve been gone for four months.”

Will drops the receiver in his shock and drops it twice more when his numb, shaking fingers refuse to keep their grip on it. “How did I… What?” It’s all he can manage to say.

“We’ve looked everywhere for you,” Hannibal tells him. “We were beginning to despair that you would never be found.”

“How could I… _Four months_ ,” Will says. “I don’t understand.”

“You abandoned your home early one morning back in May. Jack Crawford found your door open and nothing inside disturbed. The last sight of you anyone had was a security video of you withdrawing money from the ATM at your bank. While this is by no means an official diagnosis, from what I’ve just gathered from you, I believe you may’ve been suffering from a prolonged dissociative fugue.”

“I don’t know… I…” Will has to stop and try to catch his breath. What the hell is a _dissociative fugue_? He feels like maybe he should know, but it’s not clicking right now. Not much is. “Can you come get me?” he finally manages to get out. “I want to go home.”

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal says. “Do you have any money?”

Will checks his pants pockets and finds 110 dollars folded together and another ten stuck in the watch pocket of his pants. There are condoms in both hip pockets and Will lets them fall through his fingers with a sinking feeling of horror. They hit the floor with a faint crinkle of cellophane and wink up at him with a garish colors; one is actually neon green. Why does he have a rainbow array of rubbers in his jeans? Jeans he doesn’t recognize, now that he’s looking. Jeans that are so tight they’re almost uncomfortably so. He checks his other hip pocket, looking for his wallet or at least an ID. There’s nothing there, save a few sticks of gum gone mushy from his body heat. He’s so confused he can’t even think about why he’s wearing strange clothes or why he’s got enough condoms in his pocket to supply a porn shoot. He can’t be bothered to think too much about where his wallet, ID and credit cards have gone.

“Yes,” Will says after the disturbing treasure hunt through his clothing while Hannibal calmly waits on the other end.

“Good,” Hannibal says. “What I need for you to do is pay for the room you are in. If this man you mentioned was… attacking… you then it is doubtful he paid for the entire night. Do that and then come back and call me with where you’re at. I will dress while you do this and then I will leave.”

“Okay,” Will says. He hangs up without saying goodbye and hurries to do everything Hannibal has asked him.

The woman at the desk in the lobby looks at him like he’s lost his mind when he asks for the name of the motel and the address, but she tells him. He pays up the room he’s in for the whole night and then runs back to call Hannibal. His skin is crawling and he wonders why the hell he’s wearing a shirt with the Trix Rabbit on the front of it. These aren’t his clothes, this isn’t happening (except it is and he knows it is) and he doesn’t know how he could’ve been lost inside his own head for _four goddamned months_. Except the weather is too hot for it to still be May and there’s no other explanation for any of this. He’s worried about his dogs and worried he’s maybe lost his job. Mostly, Will’s worried he’ll check out again before Hannibal can get there.

The part that _terrifies_ him though is not knowing what he’s been doing all this time.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will stays inside of the room with the curtains properly drawn. He sits in a chair near the door and waits and waits and waits. The hours drag on and he falls asleep waiting. A knock at the door sometime that afternoon snaps him awake and he nearly falls out of the chair then scrabbles to look out the peephole. He sags with relief when he sees Hannibal’s familiar, composed face on the other side. He’s never felt so fucking happy to see a pocket square in his life.

He practically rips the door open after fumbling with the lock and it’s all he can do not to _hug_ the doctor. Hannibal takes one long look at him without twitching so much as an eyebrow then stands back to sweep his arm out, indicating his car.

“Let’s get you home, Will,” he says.

Will follows him out into the bright light of late afternoon and gets into the car gratefully. There’ll be questions he can’t answer and Jack’s going to be pissed, Will knows it because that’s how Jack _is_ , but he doesn’t care. He’s going home, back to Virginia and his dogs (he hopes) and his tiny little house in the middle of nowhere. He’s going back to a place that’s safe and familiar, even if all that life gives him is bad dreams and migraines, even though he lives in a constant state of fear. It’s _home_ , it’s what he _knows_ ; it’s not Chicago and four months of _nothing_

He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes against the angry light of the burning sun. Hannibal doesn’t speak, although Will is aware of him casting glances at him from the corner of his eye. Because he’s Hannibal and because he gets Will in a way most people cannot even begin to, he does not pepper him with questions or harass him. Instead, he lets Will keep his eyes closed against the sunlight.

Will drifts off into an exhausted sleep with the strangest, most unsettling feeling nagging at the back of his mind. He feels like he is forgetting something of unbelievable importance. It follows him down into sleep and screams across the landscape of his dreams. He frowns and tosses his head, trying to make it stop, but it won’t and his heart aches with the desire to know, to _remember_.

He doesn’t wake again until they’ve crossed the Virginia state line and only then do the questions begin. Will answers them each and every one honestly. He says, “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

He keeps that nagging sense of forgetting something important to himself, but he worries at it like a sore tooth. He tries to figure out why he feels as though his heart is breaking. It makes him want to scream or cry or do both because the sense of _loss_ is overwhelming.

Then they’re back at Quantico and there is Jack and Alana to be dealt with. There is Beverly to try and fend off when she tries to hug him. Will finally relents and hugs her back.

For a little while he forgets even that feeling, but eventually Jack’s scowling face is gone. Alana’s worried, well meaning touches on his arm are gone—she reeks of pity, Will realizes and he turns on that a little bit, almost baring his teeth at her when he gets it. Beverly’s sarcasm and affection are gone, too.

Soon, it’s Will standing inside the doorway of his little house with Hannibal looming behind him and telling him his dogs will be returned as soon as possible. Alana’s watched a couple, Beverly another three and the others were sent to responsible foster homes until Will could claim them—or they decided he was most likely dead. Hannibal doesn’t say the last, but he doesn’t need to. He’s still pissed about it because they’re _his_ dogs and how dare they throw them into _foster_ homes.

Then he realizes they could’ve simply sent them to a shelter where they may’ve wound up euthanized and he calms down again. Hannibal goes to the store for him and brings back a few necessary supplies—coffee, milk, bread, eggs, a five pound sack of potatoes and a pound of deli-sliced smoked turkey breast lunch meat.

Will thanks him then says he’d like to be alone. Hannibal says, “Of course,” gives Will a nod and then he’s gone again.

Will sits on the side of his bed and looks around at his house. Being back here without remembering ever having _left_ in the first place is overwhelmingly surreal. The house is neater than he probably left it. When he went missing, the house was probably searched and afterward, someone came in here and tidied it up again. It was probably Alana and Hannibal, maybe Beverly. Will doubts Jack gave much of a damn about whether or not his house—his sanctuary—had been wrecked.

In the dark, Will listens to the soft sigh of the summer night’s breeze and rubs at his chest, trying to make the ache in it go away. It gnaws at him though and he frowns down at the floorboards between his feet. It’s insistent and painful, but this is no heart attack.

Will falls asleep again around dawn and dreams of long black hair blowing across his face. The wind is in front of him and so is the person who all of this hair belongs to. If it would stay out of his face, he could see _their_ face, but the wind never stops blowing and no matter how Will turns, it is never to his back.

 _Will No Name_ , he hears like a whisper down a long corridor.

He awakes with a start and lies there, staring up at his ceiling and shaking. Outside, it’s raining and the sound lulls him back to sleep. He hears that name— _his_ name—all the rest of the night, he cannot escape it no matter how hard he tries.

He wakes again for good and when he does, for one instant he is sure there’s an arm looped around his waist. He’s reaching to touch it when he wakes up entirely and that phantom arm is gone.

Will half throws himself out of bed in his haste to escape that strange ache and the itch in the back of his mind. He makes coffee to occupy himself and as he watches the dark liquid filling the carafe, for some reason he says, “My name is Will No Name.”

Will’s sense of loss is profound as he inhales the scent of fresh coffee while trying to remember something he wishes he’d never lost in the first place.


	5. September

**I**

_“We don’t even ask for happiness, just a little less pain.”_

— Charles Bukowski

August slowly bleeds into September and the leaves on the trees turn rich red, orange and gold. The color fades and they slowly become brown. They crunch and crinkle under Will’s feet when he walks out his backdoor and down to the creek where he fishes in silence for hours on end. He doesn’t even care if he catches anything; he just needs something to do.

Inch by inch, his memories of the last four months have begun to come back to him. After Jack told him when he left, Will did the math and found he had been gone for 120 days. That’s 120 days of doing God knows what—although some of the glimmers Will has gotten are painful and scary. That’s 120 days of not even knowing his name… except somewhere in there, he did acquire a name of some sort. He was named Will No Name. Will is pretty sure he didn’t name himself that. Whoever named him such is an important part of the puzzle—a part that constantly eludes him no matter how hard he grabs at it.

His first few days back, he remembers nothing of that time at all. All he has are dreams of black hair obscuring his vision and the desperate fluttering of his heart as he reaches for whoever is behind that hair. When he doesn’t dream of that, he chases his feathered stag into the depths of winter, following the red-orange sparks of a fire he can never see. Sometimes Garrett Jacob Hobbs is there and sometimes he isn’t. Will’s first week home leaves him feeling like he is in a fever dream. The hints of something lost competing with what he once more remembers leave Will feeling like his mind is splintering into little shards of glass that dig beneath his skin.

It all starts coming back in earnest while he’s got his dogs out early one morning before bed. That, too, strikes him as peculiar—he’s a night person now where he wasn’t before. He’s watching them sniff around, romp and generally do doggy things. It’s while doing so that he begins to count them. Frowning, he counts them again. He has the nagging feeling one of his dogs is _missing_ and it agitates him. He knows each and every one of their furry faces and these are the dogs he had when he left, but the count is still _off_. Regardless of what he knows on one level, on another more insistent level, Will is certain one of them is not here.

 _Alice_.

It hits him like an electric charge, so hard and fast that he stumbles back a step and sits down heavily on the side of his porch. Alice is his dog; too, he found her one day coming back from the dollar store. A little boy kicked her. She is black and has ears that were butchered in some ignorant attempt at cropping them. She likes egg rolls. She likes to sleep in the bloodstained recliner. She came in the door the very first day, hopped on the bed and licked Spark’s face until he woke up.

 _Spark_.

Will makes a choked sound as his memories of Chicago continue to pelt him. Mr. Business… Daddy… Mike of the Wal-Mart Automotive Center… _The Boxer_. Will opens his mouth and gasps and he’s back on the dirty carpet of room 139 and The Boxer is shoving inside of him. He hurts all over, inside and out. He calls Spark and Spark comes because if he falls down, Spark will be there to help him up.

 _Spark_.

He is what Will has lost and has been trying so desperately to remember. He found Spark, but Spark saved him even though Spark thinks he _ruined_ him. Will sold his ass under a streetlight with Spark standing next to him, cigarette smoke curling lazily out of his nostrils. Spark has elegant hands and a long, lean body. Spark looks like he was carved, not created of flesh. Spark is beautiful and Spark has a husky, smoky laugh. Spark has long, black hair and on so many nights, Will wanted to hide beneath the curtain of his hair. Spark held his hand while two strangers fucked him at the same time. It was painful and scared Will because no one told him that was going to happen. Spark with a needle full of heroin and eyes full of regret, giving it to Will so Daddy would leave his mind. Spark telling him someone needs to hold onto him. Spark is the one who calls him Will No Name and Will is so in love with him that it _hurts_.

He remembers the black holes of his eyes in the mirror and the sight of those two cocks plundering his body. The battery acid taste of Tina in the back of his throat and the spider bite of a needle entering his veins. And everywhere, there is Spark and Spark is everything and Will’s love is a hopeless kind of love, but now he knows why he doesn’t love Alana anymore. She has been replaced by this boy who is older than Will in so many ways and he misses him. He’s missed him since the second he calmed down enough to realize it even though he couldn’t remember him. He sat right there in that motel room, waiting for Hannibal to come fetch him and just down the way on the south side of the complex in the corner room was… was… _home_.

Will holds his head and gasps out a dry sob and remembers that Spark told him he cried too much. He remembers kissing him on the sidewalk in the humid night air. He remembers dancing with him in the rich great room of a mansion before he was led away upstairs like a calf to the slaughter.

_He remembers._

By the time he is able to get himself up from the porch, the sun is well and truly up. It paints everything with cheerful golden light and Will slinks inside to escape it. He calls the dogs and they come running, tongues lolling happily and he thinks of Alice asleep in the bloodstained recliner—it is a _special_ chair—waiting for him to come home.

Will got himself back and left everything he loves behind. He asks himself how he could do that to Spark and Alice—and _himself_. Mr. Business was making him one kind of masochist, but Will thinks he’s always been _this_ kind of masochist. The one who’s into emotional flagellation and punishment. It’s all he knows how to do.

He goes to his bed and sits down heavily, puts his head in his hands again and tries to make the tilt-a-whirl _stop_ , but he cannot. Everything from Chicago is crammed in alongside everything of now and before then and it’s all jockeying for room inside his head. With Spark, Will had found some kind of bizarre happiness that wasn’t really happiness. It was just a little less pain and there had been a lot of bad, but that had made up for almost every single bit of it.

He’d found something that was missing, he realizes and he hadn’t even been looking for it. He can’t have it, Spark didn’t want him back, but he still had a _friend_ if nothing else. For Will, having a friend is almost more important and may actually _be_ more important. He’s the poor, white trash boy his classmates called a freak and gave a wide berth. He’s the man that people treat as though he will break if handled a bit too roughly and they all treat him like he can’t make his own decisions. He is, after all, _unstable_ and that’s a nice way of saying _crazy_.

Will Graham has forever felt like Frankenstein’s monster uttering his sad question: _Friend?_

No one has ever actually said _yes_ until he met Spark and now he has lost him, too. In doing so, Will feels like he’s lost everything. He’d give all of this up for just one more afternoon of waking up with Spark’s arm around his waist.

When Will at last lies down, he is run ragged and all he’s done is sit; first on the porch and then on his bed. His heart is heavy and his belly feels hollow. He doesn’t think he will sleep, but he does and when he does, he dreams. He sees Spark’s face and follows him down a dark alleyway to nowhere, but he is happy to follow. He hears the click of Alice’s toenails on the dirty concrete as she pads along beside them, excited to be going on such an adventure.

~*~*~*~*~*~

After remembering everything, Will retreats into himself to try and deal with the pain of his loss and the awfulness of some of the things that were done to him. He makes an attempt at accepting he was a bona fide streetwalking _whore_. The man in the motel room when he woke up wasn’t raping him, that’s what The Boxer did. No, the man he woke up to had paid Will in full and Will was _allowing_ it. He remembers that he made absurd and freakish little squeaking sounds while he fucked him. His memories of Mike still make him laugh though, he can’t help it. The Kilroy peeping of the head of his cock above the waistband of his thong can keep Will in stitches for a good ten minutes sometimes. If anyone heard him, they’d be more than a little convinced he’s gone mad. Sometimes even the dogs look at him funny.

Daddy, the party and The Boxer are the ones that give Will the most trouble. He’s stuck with these old memories that still feel new since coming back to him. He never has liked being touched anyway, but he’s lost back in room 139 one day when Beverly comes to see him and touches his arm. She startles and scares Will so badly that he almost slaps her. It’s a Saturday afternoon, the last day of his first week back in Wolf Trap. Will has developed a funny way of keeping track of time.

“Whoa,” Beverly says as she jerks away from Will’s raised hand.

Will backs away with his hands up and apologies streaming off his tongue. “I’m so sorry, you startled me,” he says.

“The door was wide open and I was worried,” Beverly says. “You’re all wonky these days, so I just came in to make sure you were still actually _here_.”

“I’m always _wonky_ ,” Will says. He remembers now he left the door open after going out to check his mail.

“Yeah, but this is a special brand of wonky,” Beverly says.

Will stares at her and wonders what _that_ means, but decides not to ask. “What do you want?”

Beverly shrugs, not bothered by his bluntness. He usually takes people aback, but she never has seemed to care. It’s almost like she’s immune to Will’s poor social skills. “Nothing much,” she says. “I haven’t seen you around for a while and no one’s said anything, so I decided to come by and see how you’re doing.”

“Ah,” Will says. He walks out of the room to go make coffee and Beverly follows him.

“Have you talked to Jack?” she asks.

“Of course not,” Will scoffs. “I’m no use to Jack right now since I’m on leave and he can’t… use… me.”

“What about Alana or Dr. Lecter?” Beverly asks.

Will thinks she is very nosy. “Alana sometimes; she brings me groceries and pity about once a week. Dr. Lecter comes by a couple of times a week,” Will says.

Beverly smirks. “Groceries and _pity_ ,” she repeats. “Nice.”

“It’s true,” Will says. “I never realized how sorry for me she feels until I came back.”

“She thinks you’re a nutter,” Beverly says.

“She’s made that abundantly clear,” Will says as he flips on the coffee pot. “She’s just been more polite in her phrasing. You know, I’m _unstable_ and therefore, I cannot be dealt with. I made advances of an amorous nature at one point. She rejected my…”

“Premise?” Beverly asks.

She’s still smirking, amused with herself. She often is, but Will doesn’t mind. He likes her, even though he didn’t at first; he’d found her abrasive and loud. Now though… she’s interesting and doesn’t try to tell him how to live his life. She accepts that he’s buggy and doesn’t really care so long as he doesn’t come at her with a knife.

“You can call it that if you want to,” Will says with a faint smile of his own. “It’s okay now though.”

“You’re over it?” she asks.

“Yes,” Will says. “I am. It’s nice, I think.”

“Cool,” Beverly says as she watches Will pour himself a cup of coffee. “Social etiquette dictates that you’re obligated to offer me a cup of coffee as well.”

Will coughs out a laugh at her phrasing. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Beverly?”

“Yes, I would, Will,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Ah, manners,” Will says under his breath. “Always a challenge.”

“I know, right?” Beverly says. “I still haven’t totally learned that it’s rude to belch in public.”

“It happens,” Will says.

“And that’s why I like you, Will Graham,” Beverly says.

“You like me?” Will says. He’s so unused to hearing anyone say such a thing that he needs confirmation he heard correctly.

“Yeah, I think we can be friends,” she says.

“ _Friend?_ ” Will says. It’s his turn to be amused now. He gives Beverly her coffee and she snorts a laugh. It’s very unladylike of her.

“Yep,” Beverly says. She sips her coffee. “Oooh, you’re good at this. I should come drink your coffee more often.”

“Any time,” Will says.

Beverly watches him for a couple of minutes until Will scowls a bit and turns away. He hates being stared at. “What?” he asks her when he can still feel her eyes on him.

“They told me you had some kind of dissociative fugue,” Beverly says finally. “I’m curious… What the hell did you do for four months in Chicago if you didn’t even know who you were?”

“Lots of things,” Will says.

“Vagueness, nice,” Beverly says. “Do you even remember what you did then now that you’re… back? Sorry, this whole fugue thing is weird and kind of confusing. I’ve tried to do some research, but most of the data is insufficient and it’s hard to come to any kind of conclusions based on what I’ve read.”

“I didn’t remember at first, but I do now,” Will says. “It came back slowly, in bits and pieces that didn’t make any sense. Then one morning it all just… hit me like a freight train.”

“So… What did you do?” Beverly asks. She’s practically bouncing her curiosity is so strong and her patience is so limited.

“I did more than is dreamt of in your philosophy,” Will says.

Beverly rolls her eyes. “Cute, paraphrasing Shakespeare as a method of evading my questions,” she says.

“I thought it was pretty clever,” Will allows.

“You’re not going to tell me are you? Not even a little bit?” Beverly asks.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” Will says.

“It was bad,” Beverly decides.

“Not all of it was,” Will corrects—he can give her that much. “Some of it was actually okay.”

“Hmm… Alright,” Beverly says. “You know I’m going to keep asking you until you tell me, right?”

“Yes, but you have to know I’m never going to answer you unless I want to,” Will says.

“Fair enough,” Beverly says. She puts her empty coffee cup down and smirks again. “Game on then.”

“Game? How is this a game?”

“It’s a game because I say it’s a game,” Beverly says.

“You may want to consider whether or not you have the beginnings of a God complex,” Will says.

“I know I do,” Beverly says. “It’s awesome. I need to go though. Maybe next weekend I can come by with a twelve pack and a deck of cards.”

“Make it Canadian LTD and you have a deal,” Will says.

“That cheap shit?”

Will shrugs. “I have an overbearing fondness for it.”

“Suit yourself then,” Beverly says. “Canadian LTD it is, I drank plenty of that in college, I figure I can do it again.”

Will shows her to the door and as she starts to leave, Will touches her elbow. “Wait,” he says. “Can you do something for me?”

“Sure,” Beverly says. “Name it.”

“I need you to look up a name for me, check missing persons reports for it,” he says.

“What’s the name?” Beverly asks. “Is this a case?”

“The name is Lawrence Norman or Norman Lawrence,” Will says. “And no, it’s not a case, it’s a… curiosity.”

“Alright,” she says. “Anymore search parameters to help me narrow it down?”

“He was from Montana and ran away from the Blackfoot—maybe it’s Black _feet_ —Indian Reservation when he was fifteen,” Will says. He licks his lips and adds, “And will you keep this just between you and me? I don’t want a lot of questions asked about this.”

“Sure,” Beverly says. She’s grinning. “I love keeping secrets, it’s just… it’s so much fun. But I do get to ask one question: How do you know about this guy?”

Will huffs and scuffs his feet. He should’ve known this would happen and he is asking her to do this for him, so he can answer one question he supposes. “I met that boy’s ghost in Chicago.”

“That’s all I’m getting isn’t it?” she asks.

“Pretty much,” Will says.

“Will Graham, a man of mystery,” Beverly says, her grin still there, albeit fainter now. “I’ll be in touch when—if—I find anything out.”

“Thank you,” Will says.

“You’re welcome,” Beverly says.

He closes the door and goes to fix himself another cup of coffee.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will spends a good part of his evenings after waking feeling like his brain is itching. He paces around his house with his fingers tangled in his hair, trying to get the thoughts out of his mind. He wants to shake loose the monsters like Daddy and The Boxer, but they are always there, digging away at him.

He takes to driving again even though he’s been advised it’s a bad idea now that he’s suffered a prolonged fugue. He has about a fifty percent chance of having another one and if he’s behind the wheel when it happens, there’s no telling where he may end up. Will does not point out that he didn’t _drive_ to Chicago. None of them know how he got there, but Will has a hazy memory of trotting out a bus terminal into bright morning light, so he has the answer for himself at least.

Now that he has an ID and ATM card back, there’s nothing to stop him from taking hours long drives all over hell and gone in the dead of night. Sometimes he takes the dogs and sometimes he doesn’t. He buys a Pantera album and an iPod to listen to it on. He finds a 24 hour grocery store and starts doing his own shopping again, turning Alana around at the door one day when she comes by early and wakes him up.

She’s hurt, Will can tell it, but he doesn’t apologize even though he does feel like a bit of a shit for it. Alana may’ve refused his affections, but she’s still been decent to him over the years. It’s the pity in her eyes that he can’t stand. She looks at him like he is the most pathetic creature she has ever seen and it reminds Will that somewhere in his brain, there is something irreparably broken. He doesn’t need that, especially not now and all Alana does is serve as a reminder.

His drives take him into the seedier areas of Richmond and Will finds a strange kind of familiarity in the burned out streetlights and cracked sidewalks. He remembers a dandelion growing out of a crack in the pavement at Spark’s feet the first night he met him. The recollection leaves that sad old hollow ache in his belly that Will is well acquainted with now.

As he cruises down a dark side street one night, the dogs asleep in the back, Will admits to himself what he’s been doing down here in Richmond’s bottoms. He’s been flirting with an idea that is a memory that is the secret to making his itching brain be still. Not sure how to proceed, Will sees a shadowy figure and pulls over, cracks his window and waits. He hopes he is not about to be robbed and shot—or shot and robbed, whichever comes first.

The figure sidles up to his window after a minute and says, “Whatcha want?”

“Heroin,” Will says.

The guy’s quiet for a minute and then asks, “You a cop?”

It makes Will smile faintly as he hears the echo of his own voice asking the very same thing. “No,” he says.

“How much you want?” he says.

Will tries to remember how much cash he’s got on him and finally says, “Fifty dollars worth.” He has no idea how much heroin that will buy, but it’s the number he comes up with.

“Wait here,” the man says. 

“I will,” Will says.

About 45 minutes later, the shadow-man comes back with Will’s fifty dollars worth of heroin and shows it to him. “This is the good stuff, brown and sweet,” he says. “You don’t get as much as you do with tar, but this is better and cleaner.”

“Okay,” Will says.

He doesn’t know brown from tar from China white aside from having seen pictures. He never worked vice or narcotics, he was homicide and while he learned about drugs in cop school, he never needed the knowledge that much either, so it got pushed to the background. So, he just passes the cash over and takes the baggie when the man gives it to him. He pockets the dope and pulls away.

When he makes it back home, Will realizes he has no needles—of course he doesn’t—and curses. He has everything else, but without the needle, there’s no point. Then he remembers that heroin can be snorted, too, so he settles for that until he can get out and buy a box of hypos.

The heroin hits his brain and washes the itch away. Will sits down clumsily on a stool at his kitchen counter and stares down at the countertop. He is _okay_ now and nothing can touch him. No one can hurt him because he is armored and insulated against the pain of The Boxer and Daddy’s sick-sick- _sickness_.

Will props his head in his hand and lets himself drift on his silver-lined cloud and thinks that Spark would be _so mad_ at him for this.

“I’m sorry,” Will mutters and he is, but he also isn’t. He is not unaware that Spark was right all along though—he’s got too much of a liking for this shit because it provides the most perfect, the most _beautiful_ , way out of his head he has ever found.

~*~*~*~*~*~

After Will buys his syringes, things get out of hand pretty quickly. It reminds him once again how right Spark was when he told him this _would_ happen. He realizes what a liar he was when he told Spark this _wouldn’t_ happen. By the middle of the month, Will is truly hooked on the stuff and on his way to becoming a real-deal junkie. It’s such an ugly thought that Will cooks up some more H to shut it down before it can get too loud.

Spark haunts him and more and more, Will entertains the idea of going back to Chicago to find him, to bring him back to Wolf Trap with him. Will feels lost without Spark and he misses him terribly. He worries about Alice and longs for his bloodstained recliner. He wonders though if Spark would have his friendship back now, if he would still like Will the way he is when he’s in his own head. He liked him before though and his personality never changed _that_ much, so maybe. Still, his fear and worry of being rejected by the first friend he’s ever had keeps Will in Virginia. His loneliness is a gnawing thing though and he wonders how long he can last this way. Even the heroin doesn’t kill his love or the way he simply misses Spark’s companionable silence.

Will nods out morning after morning wishing he could hear the sound of Spark’s knife scraping across his wet rock again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Beverly finally comes by with the information Will sent her after back at the first of the month. She gives Will a folder and he takes it while she wanders off to the kitchen to see if he’s made coffee. She’s in luck because he just finished brewing a pot. He’s also in luck because he’s not so stoned he can’t keep up his end of a conversation. He’s coming off his first high of the day and is only a bit lethargic instead of practically immobile.

“Sorry that took me so long to get to,” Beverly says when she comes back with her mug of coffee. “Things have been crazy-hectic lately and I didn’t have a chance to look until today.”

Will is reading and nods to acknowledge her. The name on the print out is Lawrence Norman Piikáni. Clever boy, Spark, never using his actual last name and taking his middle name for his surname instead. There was a missing person’s report filed in Montana for him and the case is still open. There’s a picture of Spark at fifteen attached to the report. Beverly has also included a couple of police reports from Chicago about a Lawrence Norman being picked up for prostitution. He must’ve not met the judge yet, although Will does note he’s never served any actual time for it, so maybe he had. Will taps his mug shots and almost smiles because he can see his face again, on paper and not just in his memory. In the second shot, Spark is smiling his sharp smile at the camera. He has a black eye, probably courtesy of the cops that busted him.

“Is that your guy?” Beverly asks after Will has closed the folder and put it aside.

“Yes,” Will says. “Thank you for finding him.”

“Why’d you want to know about him anyway?” Beverly asks. “Yeah, yeah, I know—you met his _ghost_ , whatever that means—but what I guess I’m really asking is… Is this guy a friend of yours?”

“He’s my best friend,” Will answers. The heroin has loosened his tongue and he’s still just high enough not to care about that.

“Where is he then?” Beverly asks.

“Chicago,” Will says.

“Well… Maybe you should go get him,” Beverly says at last. “I mean, he doesn’t seem like an upstanding citizen or anything; the guy’s a prostitute, for fuck’s sake. Still, if he’s your friend then maybe you shouldn’t… I don’t know… _leave_ him there.”

“Are you serious right now?” Will asks her.

“Of course I’m serious,” Beverly says. She puts her coffee mug aside and studies Will. “I wouldn’t leave my best friend selling his ass to strangers, you know.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore,” Will says.

“Oh, bullshit,” Beverly says. “Once someone learns to put up with you, they’ll _keep_ putting up with you. How’d you meet this guy anyway?”

Will clears his throat and leans back against the wall with his eyes closed. “We worked together,” he finally says.

Beverly is quiet for a long, long time and it’s actually a couple of minutes before Will realizes what he just let slip. He’s not still so high he doesn’t want to tunnel through the wall to escape what is probably about to come.

“Fucking hell, _really_?!” Beverly finally says. She’s very loud about it and Will jumps at the sound of her voice booming in his living room. “That’s what you were doing… you were…”

“Prostituting myself, yes,” Will says. “I’m not exactly proud of it.”

“This is _insane_ ,” Beverly says. She flops down in the one chair Will has in the room and stares at nothing at all. “You were a hooker,” she says flatly. “ _Whoa_.”

“I didn’t have a lot of options,” Will says. “I didn’t even know my own last name. I had no identification. I had… _nothing_. I wasn’t even real until Spark named me again, at least that’s what he said.”

“Who the hell is Spark?” Beverly asks.

“Lawrence Norman Piikáni,” Will says. “That’s Spark.”

“Ahhh,” Beverly says. “Wait. What did he name you?”

“It was in his arrest record,” Will says. He doesn’t really want to tell her what Spark named him, but he does it anyway; in for a penny and all that. “Will No Name.”

“I must’ve missed that part,” Beverly says. “Will No Name… I like that.” She pauses though and blinks rapidly before turning to gape at Will again. “You were a whore. Holy shit.”

“You’re a little hung up on that,” Will says as he begins to fidget.

“Of course I’m _hung up on it_ ,” Beverly says. “You’re Will Graham, FBI wonder profiler and catcher of bad guys. Then your brain short circuited and you went the totally opposite way. Did you have a pimp?”

“His name is Mack and he prefers to be called a _manager_ ,” Will says tiredly. Just saying Mack’s name makes him feel queasy.

“This is _insane_ ,” Beverly repeats.

“You keep saying that,” Will says as he pushes away from the wall. He needs a bump of heroin to make this go smoother. He’s not going to shoot up right now, that would be stupid, but he needs to take the edge off of this _very stressful_ situation.

“I keep saying it because it _keeps being true_ ,” Beverly says. “I cannot believe this. What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” Will asks as he walks away. She gets up to follow him and Will holds a hand up to stop her. “I really don’t want you following me to the bathroom.”

“Sorry,” Beverly says as she stops. Then she shakes her head. “I mean… _What did you do?_ Like, as a prostitute.”

“I had a lot of sex I didn’t really want for not very much money,” Will says and then he steps into the bathroom. The sight of her mouth falling open does provide him with the smallest bit of amusement.

Beverly is back in the chair when Will comes back. His head is nice feeling again, stuffed with straw and swimming pleasantly. He’s not wasted, he’s just at a good level of _coping_ now. He bumps lightly into the wall at the mouth of the hall and then carries on. He sits on the side of his bed and rubs one of the dogs’ bellies with his foot when it rolls over to present it.

“Are you stoned?” Beverly asks him after one long look.

“Nooo,” Will assures her. “Not at all.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Beverly says. She frowns. “What are you on?”

“I’m high on life,” Will says. He suddenly wants to touch her head. If she had a hat on, he knows he would want to knock it off. The thought makes him laugh.

“You’re high on something you just went into the bathroom to dose with,” she says.

“Maybe,” Will finally allows.

“I’m not going to preach at you about it, Will, but you need to watch that stuff—whatever it is,” Beverly says. “Drugs are not really your friend.”

“They’re treating me quite well,” Will says.

“That’s the demon called deception,” Beverly says. “You need to be careful.”

“Sure,” Will says. “Careful, careful.”

“Did you do drugs in Chicago?”

“Some, but Spark wouldn’t let me have them much,” Will says. “He said I’d get hooked too quick and then I’d die.”

Beverly is silent and watches him for a long while. At last she says, “I think your Spark may’ve been right.”

“Probably,” Will says. “He was pretty good at that. He said he wasn’t smart, but he really is.” Then he smiles and lets his eyes slip closed again. “ _My_ Spark… I like that.”

“Oh,” Beverly says. “ _Oh!_ He’s why—”

“Shut up, Beverly,” Will says pleasantly.

She shuts up, but she doesn’t leave. Will lets himself drift and hums Pantera to himself while they enjoy the lack of conversation. Beverly stands up to leave an hour and another cup of coffee later. She goes over to Will and touches his head. He cracks his eyes open to peer up at her curiously.

“You need to go back and get your Spark, I think,” Beverly says. “I think if you don’t then you’re going to get lost and never come back.”

“I’ve been lost my whole life,” Will says.

“Not like this, you haven’t,” Beverly says. “You miss him and whatever it was you had there with him. Go get him, Will. I think it’ll help.”

“Maybe,” Will says. If Spark hates him now though then all it’ll do is destroy him. Will’s decided that it’s better to wonder _What if?_ instead of finding out for sure.

“Maybe,” Beverly agrees. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Okay,” Will says. “Drive safely.”

“Don’t OD,” Beverly calls back.

Will falls back on his bed and laughs up at the ceiling.

**II**

September begins to wane and the insides of Will’s forearms take on the dotted appearance of locations marked on a map. He’s falling fast and he can feel it, the inevitable acceleration that will send him jetting right over the edge. He sits back and enjoys the ride for the most part. The concerned questions of Hannibal and Beverly, their suggestions he seek a rehabilitation facility post-haste, all fall on deaf ears. Will is carefully destroying himself and closing all of his open doors. After Chicago he’s been left ajar to _everything_ , his empathy no longer has a focus and it seeps into his life in ways it hasn’t done since he was a kid. Without anywhere for it to be aimed, it goes all over the place he pays too much attention to something or someone. Without the heroin there to quiet it down to a manageable level, it eats away at Will.

All of the psychological _assessments_ and _evaluations_ he muddles through to be declared fit for full reactivation in the Bureau come out badly. Will is starting to think he will never be reinstated as an actual agent and figures he’s going to end up on disability because he’s eventually going to be declared psychologically incompetent. He’s been made highly unreliable now and not because of the drugs. It’s because he’s another dissociative fugue waiting to happen. Will has all of the ingredients necessary to make him a highly likely candidate for another relapse into one. He’s not trustworthy like this and what’s more—he’s not _useful_.

He will miss the FBI when the call finally comes down—he really doesn’t know why they’re putting it off. The best he can come up with is that maybe they’re reluctant to completely do away with their prize hound until they can no longer pretend he has a chance. Without the FBI, without profiling, he will be a loaded gun with no target to be pointed at. He’ll be like he was as a kid, his parents dragging him to every kind of psychotherapist they could afford in order to figure out why their child would cry for hours after meeting a nice old man in the general store. Or why he screamed and got angry after their new mailman ruffled his hair. He’s a goddamned emotional sponge and now he sucks up _everyone_ if he’s not careful.

So, mostly he stays at home unless he’s running low on drugs. He talks to Beverly and Hannibal when they come by. Beverly has kept his secrets and he kind of loves her for it. The fact she still asks questions is what makes his platonic love a _kind of_ , but he still answers her—mostly. He makes Alana leave again one day when she finds a needle in his bathroom garbage. Will regrets having let her in to begin with, but she seemed so _sincere_. He yells at her and while he doesn’t remember what he says later, he remembers the look on her face. He thinks he said something incredibly cruel and/or hateful. Will’s been known to do that on occasion, just not to people he likes… usually.

Spark and Alice and the bloodstained recliner are noisy even when he’s high. He wants to leave this place very much and go back to them or at least go back long enough to _get_ them so he can bring them home. He thinks maybe Beverly was right in what she said and Will mulls it over in the taffy-stretched hours he spends sitting on the side of his bed or on his back porch. He starts to think it may be better to know for sure, one way or another, because the _What if?_ is the one thing he cannot escape. His plan has backfired and Will accepts that.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In the late night hours of the next to last day of the third week of September, Will walks out of his house and gets in his vehicle. It’s the most sober he’s been in a while and that’s okay, he’s got some dope in the bag he packed. He sends Beverly an email on his phone while sitting in his car: _Going to Chicago. Feed my dogs while I’m gone._ Then he cranks up and backs down the driveway. His palms are sweaty and his insides are shaking, but he’s committed to this and knows there’s no turning back now. There’s a key he found in the back pocket of the jeans he put on after he woke up. He hadn’t even noticed it when he searched his pants that morning when he called Hannibal. Ever since he discovered it, it’s been in his back pocket though. It’s back where it belongs, burning his skin even through the denim.

Will’s drive takes him nearly 13 hours because of stops for gas and the restroom. He finds a truck stop with an all hours diner and has a very early breakfast. When he’s done eating, he does a key bump of heroin from the small amount he’s got in a tiny baggie his wallet. He wants to fix, but he can’t because he needs to drive and running off the road when he’s this close is about the worst thing he can think of.

He doesn’t know where he lived in Chicago at all; it never occurred to him to ask and no one ever told him. He does remember the Del Mar though and a quick search on Google with his phone gives Will a map. He still gets lost and has to backtrack and finally stops to ask for directions. Once he’s set right, he makes it to the Del Mar without anymore incidents. The wind shooting through the morning air of the city rocks his vehicle and Will’s heart lurches in his chest when he recognizes the streetlight. He’s almost there. His heart hammers away beneath his ribs and his hands slip on the steering wheel, but he keeps going. This is either the bravest or the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.

Once at the Del Mar, he parks right in front of the door that will take him back to Spark, Alice and the bloodstained recliner. It is 8:41 AM and the sun is bright and the air outside is crisp with the nibble of fall turning into the bite of winter. Will takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. He takes the key from his pocket and then starts walking.

The key in the lock sounds incredibly loud to him, but he doesn’t hear any stirring from inside the room. He cracks the door open and hopes like hell that Spark is still here at the Del Mar. It’s only just occurred to him that he may push the door open and find an empty room or a pissed off meth head on the other side. He hasn’t come this far to stop now, so he takes the knob in his hand, twists and pushes it open enough to peek inside.

Alice sitting expectantly in front of the door is the first thing Will sees and his knees feel weak. She sees him and chuffs happily, popping to her feet with her tail whipping madly from side to side. Will smiles and opens the door a little wider, enough that he can step inside. The dog launches herself at him and he catches her with a choked laugh and lets her lick his face.

On the bed, Spark stirs and Will puts Alice down to look at him. His hair is down, falling all over the place and Will feels his hands begin to shake. He wants to look at him for just one second before he wakes him up, but Alice ruins it by jumping on the bed and doing some kind of weird doggy cha-cha-cha dance while giving an excited bark. She’s glad to see him at least.

Spark says, “Shut up, Alice.” Then he goes stiff, suddenly realizing he’s not alone. He sits up like a shot and Will startles a little bit, but then grins despite his trepidation.

“Will?” Spark says after his eyes focus on him. His hand comes out from under his pillow where he keeps his knife while he sleeps.

Will nods. “Hey, I’m… um… I came back.”

“Holy fuckin’ shit, dude!” Spark scrambles up out of the bed and closes the few inches between them. He grabs Will and hugs him, pulling him close and wrapping his arms so tightly around him, Will grunts, but he hugs him back. Spark pulls away and looks at him closely. He's shaking a little bit, a tautly controlled fine tremor hums through him as he studies Will’s face. Spark lets out a shaky breath and then plunges on, “Where the _fuck_ have you been? I’ve been worried sick, I mean, I thought you were fuckin’ _dead_ , man. I’ve been lookin’ everywhere and I ain’t been able to find you or find out nothin’ about you—you were just _gone_. And I… Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Spark stops talking and pulls Will back into a hug again, bowing his head to kiss the top of Will’s. Will turns his head to press his cheek to Spark’s chest and just… _breathes_. Will breathes Spark in and feels himself relax without a needle full of heroin in his arm for the first time since he woke up. 

“I remembered who I am and when I did… I forgot for a little while,” Will says. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave or forget you. I didn’t _want_ to forget you and it’s weird… I remembered that I’d forgotten someone, but couldn’t… Shit.”

“You remembered who you are?” Spark asks. He lets Will go and Will immediately wants him back, but he takes Will’s hand in his and tugs him over to sit on the bed beside him.

“Yes,” Will says.

Spark pushes him lightly and then takes a shaking breath and scrubs his hand over his face. “Who are you then?”

“My name is Will Graham,” Will says. “I’m a profiler for the FBI. Well, I _was_ a profiler. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be part of the Bureau much longer.”

“The fuck? You’re a _fed_?” Spark says. “You?”

“Yeah,” Will says. “Before I was a fed, I was a homicide detective.”

“Jesus fuck, you’re like super cop,” Spark says.

Will flinches and waits for the rejection now, but when it doesn’t come, he risks a glance at Spark. He raises an eyebrow in return.

“I am a cop, was a cop… whatever… Right now, I’m more like a cop in career limbo that’s about to be pushed into early retirement if I don’t miss my guess,” Will says. “I taught at the FBI academy in Quantico then ended up a field agent because of my… _empathy disorder_ … and it apparently short circuited me so badly I wound up in a dissociative fugue. You don’t hate me do you?”

“Hate you for what?” Spark asks. He blinks and then nods. “No, I don’t hate you because you’re a cop. I’d hate you if you’s some undercover sting motherfucker, but uh… I’m pretty sure cops don’t go that deep undercover.”

“The FBI doesn’t really do that kind of undercover work anyway,” Will says. “But no, they don’t. I was… gone, but I came back and I think it was probably a lot like leaving. Except I didn’t forget all of this for nearly as long. I was told that tends to be the case.”

“First, just let me say that this fugue shit you’re talkin’ about is confusing. Secondly: Why’d you come back then?” Spark asks. “You’re out, you’ve got your life back and you don’t need this shit anymore. You don’t need to be here. I figure, if I was you, I wouldn’t want none of this back or the memories either. I mean, some bad shit happened to you, so…” He trails off with a shrug.

Will laces his fingers in and out, in and out then rakes his fingers through his hair. “I came back because I missed you,” he says to his feet. “I want you and Alice to come home with me. I can’t… I can’t _leave_ you here. You’re my best friend and I… Will you come back with me?”

“And leave all this behind?” Spark asks after a couple of minutes. “You gotta be kiddin’.”

Will’s heart stops dead in his chest and crazed little hairline cracks appear in it. Then he looks at Spark and sees his smile and the laughter in his dark eyes.

“Don’t do that to me,” Will says as he slumps with a deep huff of breath. “Christ.”

“Calm down, man, fuck,” Spark says. He wraps an arm around him and pulls Will against his side. “Yes, I’ll pack my shit and the dog and we’ll come back with you if that’s what you really want.”

“That’s _all_ I want,” Will says. “Home doesn’t even feel right without you there.”

“You’re intense, Will No Name,” Spark says. “Or should I say Will Graham?”

“Either one will do,” Will says. “I like Will No Name better, really, but I _am_ Will Graham.”

“We’ll work it out,” Spark says. He pauses for a minute and then says, “I’m sorry to ruin this happy reunion and all, but Will… You look like shit.”

“I know,” Will says. “I’ve… I did what I said I wouldn’t.”

“And that would be…?” Spark asks.

Will takes off his coat and shows Spark his arms.

“Goddamnit! I knew you’d do this shit if I didn’t watch you!”

He shoves Will again, only kind of hard this time and then he gets up to pace away. Spark is madder than Will thought he would be, but in all fairness, he knew he’d be pissed. He wouldn’t have even told him, but he can’t really hide this either, especially not with his arms such a mess. Spark stops pacing after a few seconds and goes to the closet. He yanks it open and grabs an old backpack, a blue and grey Jansport and starts cramming clothes into it. 

“What’re you doing?” Will asks.

“The fuck does it look like I’m doing?” Spark asks. “I’m packing my shit.”

“Oh,” Will says. “I was hoping I could sleep for a little while. It’s a long drive.” He stops for a second then just spits it out, “You’re really pissed aren’t you?”

“I’ll drive,” Spark says. “Damn right I’m pissed. Look at you, man. I don’t care what you say, but this shit _is_ my fault and I ain’t gonna watch you go _poof_ down the eye of a fuckin’ needle. No.”

“Do you even remember how to drive?” Will asks. Then, “I’m really sorry, but I…” He trails off helplessly; he doesn’t even know where to begin and so, he just looks at his feet. Of course Spark’s mad and of course Spark blames himself even if Will doesn’t blame him one little bit.

Spark stops long enough to give Will a look. “Of course I do. I learned to drive when I was ten years old and then I got a lotta practice drivin’ my drunk ass dad around. I’ve driven a little over the years I’ve been here, too, so it’s all good. I accept your apology, too, but I’m still pissed and I’m not gonna sit around on my ass and watch you disappear.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have a drivers license,” Will says. “I fucked up, I know I did and… What’re you going to do?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to be extra careful then,” Spark says. He ignores Will’s other question. “You can use your FBI mojo to get me out of a ticket if I get stopped.”

“ _Why_ are we in such a hurry?” Will asks. Spark’s got a plan of some sort and it involves Will and heroin in some form or another. He really kind of wants to know what that is.

“‘Cause the sooner we get there, the sooner we can get started cleanin’ you up,” Spark says. “I told you, I won’t watch you kill yourself with that shit or any other shit like it.”

“And if I don’t want to get clean?” Will asks.

He’s scared at the mere mention of it. The hooks are in him now and the idea of pulling them out are _terrifying_ and it’s _infuriating_ that Spark is doing this to him. He doesn’t know what it’s like or how much it hurts or how it feels to be afraid all the time or so wrapped up in someone else’s feelings that Will forgets who _he_ is.

“Then you’re gonna die and break your promise,” Spark says.

Will stops and thinks about it and after a minute, he remembers. He promised Spark he wouldn’t make him responsible for his death. He’d thought it was a promise he could easily keep at the time. Now, he’s not so sure.

“I don’t know if I can,” Will says. “I don’t even know if I want to.”

“If you want me to come with you then you’ll do it,” Spark says.

Will feels like this ultimatum is Spark using his love against him. He should be furious and he wants to be, but because he knows _why_ , he just feels ashamed that it’s come to this.

“Okay,” Will says. “But not yet. It’s a long drive and I’ll get sick. I already feel sick now.”

“I didn’t mean right now,” Spark says. “In fact, you need to dose yourself before we leave. I’ll drive and you can nod out for a little while. How much are you doin’ anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Will says.

“Have you pissed your pants yet?” Spark asks as he starts stuffing his CDs into his overstuffed backpack.

“Once,” Will admits. “Last weekend. I woke up on the back porch that way.”

“Then you’re doin’ way too much already,” Spark says.

“Do you have any _idea_ what this has been like? Any idea at all?” Will snaps, finally losing his temper. “Don’t stand there and fucking _lecture_ me unless you can say _yes_ , you do know. I’ve got all my memories from before—the same things that made me delete my own _life_ and now I’ve got all this other shit, too. So, don’t you _tell me_ what I’m doing because I _know_ and it’s all I’ve _got_.”

Spark stops packing and stands there looking at Will. He puts his bag down and comes to crouch down in front of him. Will glances at him and looks away again just as quickly. He’s shaking, hands clenched on his knees and fingers digging in painfully hard. 

“It ain’t all you’ve got,” Spark says. He reaches up and cups Will’s face in his hands to make him look at him. “You hear me? It may feel like it is, but it’s not.”

Will stares at him and looks in his eyes, lets himself fall down into the darkness of them and shakes his head. “Don’t fuck with me, Spark.”

“I’m not,” Spark says. Then he lets him go and goes back to packing. Will doesn’t know what the hell just happened, but he gets up to go get his bag with his supplies in it out of the car.

He comes back in and locks himself in the bathroom to take care of this thing of his. For some reason he doesn’t want Spark watching him do this. When he comes out of the bathroom again, he’s stumbling a little bit and collapses in the recliner with a sigh. 

From next door comes the dulcet tones of Lady Crack Head screeching, _You stupid son of a bitch, I told you I don’t take it up the ass!_

Will’s heavy lidded eyes pop open and he barks out a laugh. “They’re still alive.”

Spark’s laughing, too and nods. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Motherfuckers are like cockroaches.”

 _I just wanted to try it!_ Lord Crack Head screams back.

 _Well, you’re not tryin’ it with_ me! _Go find one of them boy whores to put your ding-dong in if that’s what you want!_

 _I don’t want no boy pussy, you stupid bitch!_

It never fails to amaze Will that their preferred method of communication is a full throttle yell. It’s a wonder they don’t suffer from a perpetual case of laryngitis. He laughs again and then stops when he remembers something.

“We need a U-Haul trailer,” he says. “Do you know where we can get one?”

“What we need a U-Haul for?” Spark asks.

Will pats the arms of the recliner. “I’m not leaving it either.”

“Of course you’re not,” Spark says. “There’s a phone book around here somewhere.” He stops and yawns and then shakes his head.

“We should sleep before we leave,” Will says again.

“Maybe so,” Spark finally allows. “You’re high and I’m runnin’ on about two hours sleep. Shit.”

“It’ll be okay, you can torture me soon enough,” Will says.

“It’s the good kind of torture,” Spark says.

“No such thing,” Will says as he closes his eyes again. “U-Haul, we can’t forget the U-Haul.”

“Gimme your keys and I’ll go get it once I find the number,” Spark says.

Will doesn’t even question it, he gives him the keys from his coat pocket and then leans back, settling deeper into the recliner. After a minute, he feels a tug at his feet and opens his eyes again to find Spark taking off his shoes.

“What’re you doing?” Will asks.

“Stealin’ your shoes,” Spark says. He sets Will’s second shoe aside then says, “C’mon, outta the chair and into the bed.”

Will goes without complaint and lies down on his old pillow with the strangest, most conflicted sense of nostalgia. “I missed this bed.”

“It missed you, too,” Spark says.

Will smiles about that and then falls dead asleep. It’s actually more like passing out, but that’s okay, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will wakes again near sunset and yawns then stretches. He wants to fix straightaway, he’s grown used to that, but then his surroundings register and for a minute he forgets about that. Alice is asleep on his legs, which are prickling with pins and needles and Spark’s sitting in one the chairs that goes with the table in the room. The bloodstained recliner is gone.

“I got the U-Haul,” Spark says when he notices Will’s confused expression.

“U-Haul?” Will asks.

“You wanted a U-Haul trailer for the chair,” Spark says.

“Oh, right, I forgot that,” Will says.

“I figured,” Spark says. “You do still want it though, right?”

“Right,” Will says. He pushes himself into a sitting position. The room feels empty, like it’s letting go of all the things it once held and only the faintest echoes remain. “How long have you been up?”

“A coupla hours,” Spark says. “I packed while you slept. Everything’s in the car. I even got your old shit.”

Will chuffs out a laugh. “Skin tight pants and shirts with weird sayings. I like some of them though.”

“I know you do,” Spark says. “I left the pants though.”

“Oh, good,” Will says.

He finally gets out of the bed and wanders into the bathroom. Spark eyes him when he picks up his bag, but doesn’t say anything. Will has a change of clothes in the bag as well and takes a shower, using the shampoo he left behind. As frugal as Spark is, he’s surprised he didn’t pack it, but maybe he thought Will would want a shower before they left, too. The air is still warm and humid and the walls of the shower are damp, so Will’s not the only one who decided a shower was in order. When he’s through washing, the jones is upon him and Will sits on the closed lid of the toilet to shoot up. He intentionally gives himself less of a dose than he usually does. He needs to give directions and doesn’t want to pass out again anyway.

Spark’s standing by the door with Alice on her obnoxiously bright pink leash when Will emerges. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” Will says.

Spark hesitates and says, “This is really happening, right? You’re not just… I don’t even know.”

“It’s really happening, I’m not… not… stringing you along,” Will says. “You’re coming back with me.”

“Okay,” Spark says.

Once in the car, Spark makes a phone call and taps his fingers on the wheel as it rings. Someone picks up and Spark grins, that quickly fierce grin that Will has come to like so much. 

“Hey, Mack, so look, I’m not goin’ out tonight or any other night,” Spark says. He listens for a moment and his grin melts into a pleased smile. “Oh, you can go fuck yourself, I guess. I’m out.”

He hangs up the phone and when Lord Crack Head (of Lord and Lady Crack Head fame) comes by like a wind up toy on steroids, Spark says, “Hey, you want this?” and holds the phone out.

“Fuck yeah,” Lord Crack Head says. He snatches the phone from Spark’s hand then scurries away into the shadows on the far side of the building.

Will hears the phone ring just as Lord Crack Head turns the corner and catches him saying, “Hello?” Then, “Who the fuck are _you_?! You can’t talk to me that way! FUCK YOU!”

Spark laughs, cranks the car and carefully backs up. Lord Crack Head is still screaming at the someone on the other end, undoubtedly Mack. “Awesome,” Spark says around more laughter. Will joins him and then they’re off and Will feels relief like a cool hand on his sweaty brow because they’re going home.

**III**

The first thing Spark says upon entering Will’s house early the next morning is, “You have a lotta fuckin’ dogs. You a hoarder or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Will says. His ass is numb from sitting for so long and he needs another fix pretty bad. He’s all out of his small supply he was using for bumps.

Spark shrugs and walks around, taking it all in as Alice galumphs on into the room and starts making friends with everyone. Will fidgets and wishes he could focus on _them_ better, but the itch is driving him up the wall. He darts down the hall while Spark’s back is turned and goes to take care of it. He doses properly this time and when Spark walks into the bathroom and finds him sitting slumped on the side of the bathtub, about two seconds away from falling over on the floor entirely, he pulls him to his feet.

“No more,” he tells Will. “That was the last time, got it?”

“Got it,” Will says. He’s feeling much more agreeable about this now because of how badly he wanted to sit with Spark and Alice instead of having to go feed the monkey he’s let fasten itself to his back. “I’m going to get sick.”

“I know,” Spark says. “But then you’ll get better. Where’s your shit stashed?”

Will tells him as Spark starts stripping him down for bed. He finds a pair of pajama pants and helps Will put them on. He’s still not wearing underwear, they do feel weird now and it amuses him all of sudden to realize Spark was right about that, too.

“I don’t have another bed,” Will says.

“I don’t care,” Spark says. “It’s not like I didn’t spend four months sleeping next to you, so I think I’ll manage.” Then he’s gone to get rid of Will’s drugs. He’s very glad he didn’t tell him about the little bit he has hidden in his tackle box.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day dawns bright and cold and Will wakes with the immediate urge to fix. He’s been asleep for hours and the first stages of withdrawal have already set in. Spark’s sitting in the recliner—he must’ve brought it in last night—and looking right at him. At his feet sits Will’s tackle box.

“Bastard,” Will says as a cramp lances through his belly.

“Devil incarnate, that’s me,” Spark says. “Users are like drunks—they always got one hidin’ place they don’t tell nobody about. So, I looked around last night and found yours.”

“I hate you,” Will says.

“You’ll get over it,” Spark says. He lights a cigarette and rocks in the recliner for a second before going down the hall. He comes back with a washcloth and sits on the side of the bed to wipe Will’s sweaty face.

A little while later, Will’s nose starts running and he’s feeling sick to his stomach. Spark brings him some water to sip and when he’s done, he promptly rolls over and vomits all over Spark’s feet. His heart pounds away in his chest and Will groans in misery.

“I’m dying,” he says. “You have to give me some or I’m going to _die_.” He’s not messing around either, he really does feel like he’s going to die right there in his sweat soaked bed.

“You’re not, you just feel like it,” Spark says. He strokes Will’s matted hair and lets him curl around him with his head in his lap. “My old man used to say the same shit when he was dryin’ out before he stopped botherin’ to even try. I think it’s a… whatchacallit… universal feeling.”

“Your dad was an alcoholic,” Will says through his chattering teeth.

“No shit,” Spark says. “He looked a lot like you do right now though.”

Will says nothing, just buries his face in Spark’s belly and groans again.

A couple of hours after that, Will’s trembling and still sick to his stomach to boot. He can keep water down sometimes, but not every time and Spark just cleans up after him when he barfs it back up. He keeps Will wiped down with cool washcloths and Will curses him when he can stop shivering long enough to manage it.

The itching sets in around dusk and Will claws at himself with his shaking hands. He just wants this to be _over_. He manages to sleep for a little while, but he has horribly gruesome and vivid nightmares. The sounds of his own screams wake him up before Spark manages to do it. His throat hurts and his voice is a cracked rasp, but he thinks he feels a little better, physically speaking. The trembling has subsided and he doesn’t feel nearly as sick to his stomach anymore. Although the idea of food does make it flip-flop, so Will decides that it still isn’t an option.

After sitting with him for a while, Spark moves back to the chair and dozes off almost the second he sits down. He probably hasn’t slept at all since this started. Will watches him for a few minutes, wondering if he can grab his keys and make it out the door before Spark notices. He just needs a little bit, just a taste, just something to take the _goddamned edge_ off.

Then the feeling starts and Will squirms uncomfortably. It’s an anxious, restless feeling like he’s being tickled from the inside and he can’t escape it. His knees feel weird, like they’re not on right or something. Will rolls out of bed with a thump of his feet on the floor and starts pacing, the action almost instinctive. It actually seems to help a little bit.

“What’re you doin’?” Spark asks, having been woken up by Will’s feet thumping down on the floor.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Will says as he rakes his fingers through his hair. He’s starting to itch again and he scratches at his sides with both hands. “I feel so weird, like I can’t sit still and I don’t… _I don’t know._ Please, you’ve got to give me something to make this stop. I’m losing my mind.”

“I don’t have anything,” Spark says. He’s pacing alongside Will and Will ducks his head with a short, sharp sound of frustrated hunger.

“I _need_ it!” Will yells at him. “Can’t you see that? I _need_ it!”

Spark grabs him by his shoulders and shakes him. “No, you don’t fuckin’ need it!” he yells right back. “You need to live through this, just tonight and maybe tomorrow and it’ll be over. Don’t you fuckin’ pussy out on me now. Don’t you dare!”

“It… Oh, God,” Will says as that anxiousness intensifies and he feels like he has to start pacing again or go insane. Except the pacing makes him feel insane, too. He doesn’t know which end is up or what he’s going to do, but he’s very mad at Spark right now because it’s his fault this is happening; he took the magic away. “I hate you,” Will says again. “Hate you, hate you.”

“That’s what you keep sayin’,” Spark says. He turns and walks away and Will panics again.

“Where are you going? Don’t leave me like this,” Will says as he chases after him. He grabs Spark’s arm. “I didn’t mean it, I don’t hate you. Please, don’t leave me alone.”

“I’m not, I’s just goin’ to get you some water,” Spark says. “Come with me if you don’t believe me.”

Will hangs onto Spark’s shirt sleeve and follows him into the kitchen. He needs to make sure Spark is doing what he _says_ he’s doing. Will is feeling very mistrustful right now.

When the anxious need to pace finally relinquishes its hold enough Will can sit down again, he rocks gently back and forth. It’s not gone completely, but at least he can sit down while he does this and rest his legs for a bit. The sun is cracking over the horizon and he watches it creep across his floor. Spark gets up to let the dogs out and Will chews on his fingernails until he comes back. Something—anything—could happen. Aliens could attack. A giant spider could descend down its silken web and steal them all away. _Anything_ could happen.

Will is muttering that to himself when Spark comes back in with the dogs a little while later. He stares at Spark with wide, watering eyes and Spark sits beside him and lets Will fall against him with a shuddering sigh.

~*~*~*~*~*~

After falling asleep sometime right before noon, Will wakes up and it’s dark, save the glow of Spark’s burning cigarette.

“Spark?” he says.

“Yeah?” Spark’s out of the chair immediately and comes to sit beside him.

“I’m hungry,” Will says.

He can hear the smile in Spark’s voice. “Awesome. I’ll go find you something then.”

He comes back with a bowl of chicken noodle soup and helps Will sit up so he can eat. He holds the bowl for him since Will’s hands are still shaking too badly for it to be a good idea if he holds it himself.

“I need a shower, I stink,” Will says when he’s through with his soup. He managed almost the entire bowl.

“Need some help gettin’ down there?” Spark asks.

Will starts to tell him no, but then nods. It’s not like this is the first time Spark’s ever had to help him to the bathroom so he could wash.

After his shower, he feels even closer to human and sits down in the recliner instead of getting back in bed. Spark’s eating a sandwich when he comes back and he looks at Will sitting in the chair with a pleased, relieved light in his eyes that makes Will wish he had the energy to smile.

“I think I’ll be okay now,” Will says. It’s not all over, but the worst of it is, he thinks.

“Good,” Spark says. He eats some more of his sandwich then says, “Where do you keep your sheets? These ones kinda reek.”

Will tells him where and Spark gets up to fetch clean sheets when he’s done with his sandwich. Will sits in the chair and shivers lightly, though nothing like before and when Spark’s done changing the sheets, he climbs back in bed and pulls the covers over him.

“You cold?” Spark asks.

“Freezing,” Will says.

Spark climbs in bed behind him and wraps his arms around him. Will scoots back to get closer to him, to soak in his warmth. Will puts his hand on his arm and is glad to know that it’s not a dream this time.

“Almost there,” Spark murmurs to him.

“I hope so,” Will says.

“I know so,” Spark says. He moves enough he can grab Will’s hand in his and Will gives it a grateful squeeze.

“Thank you for picking me up again,” Will says. “Most people just leave.”

“Most people suck,” Spark says.

Will smiles wanly in the dark and lets himself doze off again. He’s never been so tired in all his life.

**IV**

It’s the last day of September before Will truly feels human again. The past few days, he’s spent a lot of time feeling like a mouse being drowned in a bucket. It was not a good feeling at all.

He’s still a little tired and kind of achy, but it’s tolerable now. By nightfall, he’s feeling even better and actually musters the energy to move his chair, with Spark’s help. They move it so it faces a window and Will can sit in it and look outside. It’s a good place for the bloodstained recliner; a good view for it to have.

They don’t turn on lights much, Spark doesn’t seem to mind it and Will’s never bothered. He tells Spark he can turn them on if he wants to and he tells him, “Nah, I been half-blinded with light for the last nine years. I grew up in a place that when it was dark, it was _dark_. It’s one of the only thing I missed about Montana; ain’t much else to miss, really, but I did miss the stars. I don’t think I’ve seen ‘em clearly since I left. Now I can and it’s a good kind of trip.”

Will nods and sits down in his chair to look out at the night pressing against the windowpanes. It’s a full moon and the yard is washed with cold, pale light, painting everything like it’s covered in frost. It makes the whole world seem so clean and clear. He can see everything he needs to see without all of the sharp corners and harsh lines to break up the picture.

After a while, Spark comes to stand beside him and Will leans his head against his leg. When Spark reaches out and begins scratching lightly at his scalp, Will sighs and sinks into the warm, heavy feeling of it.

He cuts his eyes up to watch Spark standing there, bathed in moonlight and smoking. Every drag he takes of his cigarette illuminates his face in a brilliant flare of orange and then it’s gone again. Maybe Will shouldn’t let him smoke in the house, but he honestly does not care and has no intention of requesting he go outside to do it now. So, he watches Spark blowing smoke out of his nose and notes the way it’s painted almost phosphorescent blue in the moonlight. It’s strangely pretty to look at, regardless of how bad smoking may be.

Spark glances down to look at Will and in the moonlight his long lashes cast dripping shadows over his cheeks. His hand on Will’s head stills and he takes it away to bend down and put out his cigarette in the saucer he’s been using as an ashtray that’s resting on the windowsill.

When Spark straightens up again, he stands very still then turns so he’s looking directly down at him. Will raises his eyebrows in question—there’s plenty of light to see by with the moon sitting right outside the window.

Spark gives a fleeting half-smile, then bends down and kisses Will. He startles and then leans up to meet him as Spark’s hair falls around him, sliding over his arms and down to his lap where it puddles like liquid shadows. It’s a quick kiss and when Spark pulls back, Will licks his lips and clenches his hand against the arm of the recliner.

“You said… You said that wouldn’t ever happen again, that it couldn’t,” he says. “So, why did you do that?” He has the worrisome feeling he is being made fun of or something equally as cruel.

“It’s not that I ain’t never cared about you,” Spark says. “I just wasn’t gonna do that then and you still know why now, just like you knew then.”

“You could’ve, _we_ could’ve and it would’ve been—”

“No, it wouldn’t’a been,” Spark says. “Not even a little bit.”

“Then _why_ —”

“Because _now_ is different, Will and that stuff’s not in the way anymore. Look, you don’t want this no more then I’ll leave it alone,” Spark says. “Maybe I’s confused, I don’t got much to go on when it comes to this kinda shit; all I know is sex.”

“You’re not confused,” Will says. He doesn’t want Spark to never kiss him again or… or _leave it alone_. He doesn’t even know why he’s talking right now. “I do want… I want you… I mean… You can kiss me and I won’t mind and it’ll be okay and look, I don’t—”

Spark suddenly laughs and shakes his head. “You are still so bad at this, damn.”

“I’m only trying to explain that if you want to—”

Spark leans down to take Will’s hands in his and tugs him up. “Shut up, Will,” he says.

Will smiles at the memory that brings, but then Spark’s kissing him again and he stops thinking about the past. He backs up and Will follows him, head tipped back to keep kissing him even though it’s awkward to walk and kiss at the same time. They stop beside the bed and Spark pulls away to look at him closely. He doesn’t move when Will reaches up to touch his face, to seal this moment away in his mind forever just like he did that first kiss all those months ago.

“You up for this?” Spark asks him.

“Up for what?” Will asks.

“Wherever this goes now, are you up for it?”

“Yes,” Will says without hesitation. He leans in and kisses Spark again quickly. “I… I’ve _been_ up for it.”

Spark laughs again and there is nothing mean or mocking about that laugh. It’s a nice sound, a sound of pleasure and genuine happiness. He empties his pockets, a rainbow of condoms and small tube of lube, some loose change and crumpled bills. A squashed packet of gum. He catches Will looking at the pile and shrugs.

“Force of habit,” Spark says. “I put everything back in my pockets every time I change clothes. You don’t got nothin’ to worry about, I didn’t do that over there with the expectation of this goin’ any further than you want it to go.”

Will nods and Spark nods in turn—they understand each other—then Spark sits on the bed and scoots back. He holds out his hand to Will and he takes it, following Spark to the middle of the bed so he can kiss him again and keep kissing him until the moon falls asleep in the sky outside his window if that’s how it goes.

Spark leans back against the wall and Will starts out pressed against him, their bodies turned at awkward angles until Will huffs out an annoyed breath and straddles his lap. It surprises him at first and he freezes, a deer caught in headlights, but then Spark rests his hand on his lower back. When he dips his fingers beneath the tail of Will’s shirt, he shivers and bends his head down to kiss Spark again. He’s spent all this time thinking it—they—would never happen and now that it is, he’s nervous as hell. They’ve done things together before—for crying out loud, Spark gave him a blowjob the first night they met. But this… _this_ is different. This isn’t about work or money; it’s about something so much simpler that is made far more terrifying because of that simplicity.

Spark’s hands work beneath Will’s shirt and his fingers trip over his ribs. Will feels his skin rise with goosebumps and he gasps softly. It tingles and burns in the best way possible, leaving warmth in his belly like the softly glowing heat of a coal. Will breaks away from a kiss to yank his shirt over his head without thought and Spark laughs again as he leans back and does the same.

Will lays hands on his skin and is amazed at the warmth and how soft it is. He touches him with something akin to wonder, though not nearly so innocent as that. He kisses Spark’s collarbone and smiles at the feel of Spark’s fingers tracing up his spine. It makes him shiver, all of this is overwhelming and he just keeps wanting more, more, more.

Sweat has started to bead lightly on his skin by the time Spark slips a hand between their bodies to cup Will through his pajama pants—he hasn’t bothered to properly dress himself in days. Will moans, the sound low and immediately embarrassing as he presses closer to the warmth of Spark’s palm soaking through the cotton.

“Sorry,” Will says as he ducks his head. “I… that was…”

“That was awesome,” Spark assures him as he licks under Will’s chin, his tongue rasping across the stubble there. “Do it again,” he whispers against Will’s mouth with a sly smirk that makes the warmth in Will’s belly flare bright and hot.

He curls his fingers lightly around Will’s length and gives a gentle squeeze. Will gasps and moans as his hips stutter forward and he presses his mouth to Spark’s. His pleased laughter echoes in Will’s mouth and he huffs out a soft laugh of his own. Will moves against him as he strokes down Spark’s arms and over his chest; his fingers tangle in his hair and Will twines it through them like satin cords.

Hunger and want beat under Will’s skin and his spine feels tight, like a coiled spring; like it’s waiting for something. It’s almost like an itch and Will gasps against the side of Spark’s neck as he mouths along the skin there, listening to the way Spark’s breath has deepened.

He sits back and looks at Spark, sees his dark eyes glittering in the moon-dipped nighttime all around them and says, “I want… Can we…?”

“Yeah,” Spark says. He catches Will’s mouth in a quick kiss. “So long as you’re sure.”

Will knows he’s offering him an out because Spark was there, he knows all of the shit that’s happened to Will the last few months. He’s giving him the opportunity to change his mind because he doesn’t want to scare him or hurt him or make him feel like he _has_ to do anything. Will realizes that Spark’s even a little afraid of Will equating him with those other, awful people that hurt him.

“You’re not them,” he whispers into Spark’s ear. He nuzzles the hair at his temple, breathes him in and lets his eyes slip closed for a moment. “You’re not.”

Spark kisses and nips along the curve of Will’s shoulder and says, “Good.” It’s all he needs to say and Will grins against his temple before moving off of him to take his pants off.

Spark follows suit and when they’re both naked, there is a pause. Will looking at Spark and Spark looking back. It’s amazing to Will how vulnerable he feels all of a sudden, how unbelievably _naked_ he is.

“You okay?” Spark asks him.

Will nods and licks his lips. “I feel really naked.”

“Ah,” Spark says. “This is different isn’t it? Not like… other stuff. It’s alright though, I think, because this is better.”

“It is,” Will agrees with a nod. “Much better.”

He reaches out for Spark’s hand and when he takes it and tugs him back onto to the bed, Will goes. He lies back and looks up at Spark and touches his face again, runs his fingers along his high cheekbones and waits for his fingertips to split open and paint Spark with his blood. He’s thought about cutting his hands on Spark before and it’s not a bad thought, it’s not scary or weird to Will. It’s the best thing he can think of, in fact.

“How you wanna do this?” Spark asks him. It’s an old echo of what they’ve asked countless tricks, but while the question may be the same, the weight it carries now is so much more intimate. This is not impersonal. This is not _business_. This is them and they are not those men anymore.

Will still hesitates because talking about sex is still not his favorite topic, regardless of where is right now. He has to answer though, so he sucks his lip into his mouth then lets it go with a soft _pop_. “I want you to… I mean… Uh. You. On top. That.” Spark doesn’t laugh at him this time, but the corners of his mouth quirk and Will pokes the side of his mouth gently. “I’m shit at this, I know. Don’t remind me again.”

“Me? Never,” Spark says as he reaches over onto the nightstand for the lube. Once he has it in hand, he sits back and looks down at Will laid out beneath him. “You tell me if I do anything wrong or you want to stop or… anything. Alright?”

“Yes,” Will says as he watches Spark take the cap off the lube and squeeze some out on his fingers.

He swallows hard as memories threaten to beat down the doors he’s managed to shut them behind for now. When Spark slowly presses a slick finger inside of him there is one moment where every bad thing, every painful encounter, every single memory of every single _ugly_ thing that happened to him those four months in Chicago threatens to overwhelm him.

“Look at me,” Spark says. “Open your eyes and look at me, Will.”

Will opens his eyes and looks up into Spark’s face. His hair is falling all around them just like Will’s fantasized about it doing—he has a thing and he knows it, but that doesn’t actually bother him. He can feel Spark’s finger inside of him, but he knows it’s _Spark’s_ finger and not the finger of some nameless trick or any of the others.

“You’re not them,” Will repeats. He reaches up to grab Spark’s face and pull him down for a kiss as he rolls his hips back against the finger inside of him, asking for more, asking for Spark to move.

Spark does and after a while, Will forgets about all of those other people. They won’t ever leave him, but he can put them away and be _here_ for this. This is different, this is better and this, more than anything else, is _wanted_. Spark adds another finger to the first and Will arches against him with a low moan as he curves his fingers and presses against that spot inside of him that makes his belly shiver with pleasure.

Will moves against Spark’s fingers instinctively, finding a rhythm and riding it. There’s a tiny knot of embarrassment inside him about behaving so… so _wantonly_ , but Spark seems fascinated by it. It makes Will smile, a quick flash of teeth before a burst of pleasure under his skin makes his voice break on a small cry as he shivers.

This is good and it could be enough, but it’s not all that Will wants and if it keeps on this way, he’s going to come and that’ll be that. This isn’t how he wants to come, not after finally being allowed to have this. He grabs at Spark’s shoulders and pulls at him as he raises up to lick and kiss along the column of his throat.

“Enough,” he pants even as his belly tightens with another wash of pleasure. He whimpers through his gritted teeth and gasps. “I want… I want _you_.”

Spark doesn’t say anything other than to make a wordless murmuring sound of comfort as he strokes his fingers through Will’s sweaty hair. He withdraws his fingers and Will turns his head to the side with a soft moan as they’re taken away. Spark snatches a condom off the nightstand, rips it open and then with practiced fingers, quickly rolls it on. He slicks himself with more lube then leans back when Will pushes at his chest with intent burning in his eyes. He’s feeling bold now and that’s a good feeling; it mostly does away with the lingering quiver of nervous butterflies flitting around under his skin.

“Yeah?” Spark asks him.

“Yeah,” Will confirms as he straddles his lap again.

Spark rests a guiding hand on the slight dip of his waist and holds himself steady with the other as Will lowers himself down into his lap. The depth and angle of penetration makes Will gasp as he sinks down. He loops his arms around Spark’s neck when he’s fully inside of him and pants against his shoulder, his skin twitching with the urge to move although he needs a moment to adjust. That urge beats under his skin, all the way down in his muscles and finally, with a hitching breath, Will lifts himself up and begins to move.

They’re pressed closely together, Spark half-sitting up to hold onto Will’s hips. Their movements are slow and deep and Will’s voice catches on soft breaking cries that grow sharper when Spark nips his earlobe lightly or leaves a trail of lightly stinging bites down the side of his neck. Those nips and bites will leave marks, decorating Will’s flesh and telling anyone who may see exactly what happened here tonight. It makes Will shiver again as he presses his forehead to Spark’s and breathes his breath as Spark breathes his.

Sweat rolls down his spine in a tickling little stream until Spark runs a hand up his back and smoothes it away. Will tilts his head back and shakes it to try and get his sweaty hair out of his face as he gasps and moans. Pleasure is a knot tightening in every one of his nerve endings, each thread pulling tighter and tighter until Will thinks that when they snap, they will break him in two. He presses his face into the curve where Spark’s neck meets his shoulder and cries out into his salty skin as his fingers tighten against his arms.

His rhythm begins to falter and when Spark leans forward to lay him back; Will goes and wraps his legs around him automatically. He hears the soft rustle of Spark’s hair falling around them and looks up into his face with dazed eyes as he pants for breath. Spark starts moving faster, cupping Will’s hips in his hands to tilt them back just so. Will arches his back with a loud cry and grabs at Spark’s shoulders. His fingers slip in the sweat on his skin and he pets his hands down his back and along his ribs instead. He tips his head back against the rumpled bedclothes and pants as his pulse beats behind his closed eyelids. He can feel it building, building and when all of those threads are finally pulled to their breaking point, Will’s eyes snap open as they break.

He grabs at Spark and holds on as it washes through him until he’s trembling and panting with it, his voice a dry, hoarse cry as Spark fucks him through his orgasm. Spark kisses him to swallow down the tapering off moans and whimpers that are still being torn like delicately ripped petals from Will’s throat.

Will kisses him back lazily, fingers twining, twining through Spark’s hair and then stroking down the long line of his spine. He rests his hands against his skin and feels the slide and stretch of his muscles as his breathing grows harsher. He’s tired, but he moves with him, not willing to quit now just because he’s come. He watches Spark’s shadowy face in the darkness and barely catches the glimmer of his eyes before they slip closed and he throws his head back with a deep moan. Will touches the line of his throat and feels the way that moan vibrates deep within it.

When Spark stops moving and just lets his weight rest against Will when it’s all over, Will wraps his arms around him. He smoothes his hands over his sweaty skin as Spark kisses him softly until Will responds and lifts his head to deepen it.

“How’re you doin’?” Spark asks him.

“I’m… good,” Will says. He tries to fight his smile, but it cracks across his face anyway, leaving him feeling utterly exposed all over again.

Spark snuffs soft laughter and kisses him again before moving to pull out of him. Will whimpers softly and Spark shushes him, planting quick kisses all over his face until he’s done.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says as he gets up to go dispose of the condom and tidy up a bit.

Will stretches and turns his head to look across the room. Only then does he notice the furry audience watching him back. He grimaces even as he covers his eyes and turns his head away.

“Perverts, every one of you,” Will says. There is a responding thump-thump of a few tails wagging as though they’re happily agreeing with Will’s observation.

Spark comes back a few minutes later with a damp washcloth for Will and he wipes himself off with it. He’s a little clumsy, exhausted and maybe a touch embarrassed now. He doesn’t feel dirty or cheap or ashamed of himself though. He’s actually about as close to happy as he thinks he can get. It’s an alien feeling, but a good one and once he’s laid the cloth aside on the nightstand, he curls up next to Spark and thinks that this is _right_. That, too, is a good feeling—an amazingly, wonderfully good feeling.

Spark wraps his arms around him and Will lets his eyes close, content to be here pressed against Spark’s warmth with the soft sounds of the dogs all around them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sex is not a cure-all, no matter how good it may be and in the early morning hours, as the moon sets and September says its goodbye for the year, Will wakes from a nightmare. It’s all of the old and a lot of the new thrown together in a stew of blood and pain that smells like spent gunpowder and latex.

He’s clawing at the sheets when he finally comes all the way up. Someone has their hands on him, they’re shaking him and Will fights against those hands so hard he throws himself out of the bed with a hard thump. It serves to fully wake him up and when he opens them, he focuses his bleary eyes on Spark looking at him over the edge of the bed.

“What the hell are you doin’?” he asks.

He’s been here before though, he knows what the hell and even as Will thinks it, he slides on out of the bed to sit on the floor next to him. Will’s still sweating and shaking as he twists around to lay his head on Spark’s thigh.

“I get so sick of these dreams,” Will says after a while, after the trembling has subsided to light shivers. “Just once, I’d like to have a _good_ dream. I don’t think I’ve ever had one. Not a single one.”

“You’ve seen so much ugliness in your life that it’d make no sense if you had good dreams,” Spark says. He’s carding his fingers through Will’s sweaty hair, gently working the knotted clumps out of it. “You can’t expect kittens and rainbows when you’ve seen the shit you have.”

“I hate it,” Will says.

He likes catching the bad guys, but he also knows it’s gone a long way towards destroying him. If, by some miracle he keeps his job with the FBI, it will end up being the death of him. It’s a slow, painful way to die and Will imagines his life ending, not by some serial killer’s hand, but by his own. One day, he simply won’t be able to take it anymore and will end up sitting in a recliner much like the one he loves so much now—indeed, it may very well be that one—while his life and nightmares leak out onto the floor.

“So quit,” Spark says. “You said you’re prolly gonna get canned anyway. Just let it go and find somethin’ else to do. Be a… uh… consultant or somethin’ instead of a fulltime fed. Let somebody else chase the bogeyman for a while.”

“I’ve thought about it, but that job’s all I’ve got,” Will says.

It lays it out crystal clear for anyone to see just how lonely and ultimately empty Will’s life is, how secluded and cut off from everything he really is.

“Is that so?” Spark asks. “Huh, I musta missed that memo.”

Will thinks about that and thinks about how _badly_ he wants Spark to stay with him for as long as he’ll have him. He’s Will Graham though and he’s never had a happy ending in his life. He won’t allow himself to hope this will be any different despite what Beverly said about people learning to put up with him.

“You won’t stay,” Will says. “Everyone leaves in the end. I… cannot be dealt with.”

“I deal with you just fine, I think,” Spark says. “You ain’t no big, bad bother to me. You’re a dude with a whole lotta loose screws and the saddest damn eyes I’ve ever seen, but you ain’t no burden either.”

“You don’t have to try and make me feel better,” Will says. “I don’t expect you to stay and you don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you _everything_. You got me outta that life, out from under Mack’s thumb and all those fuckin’ tricks,” Spark says. “That ain’t why I’m gonna stay though.”

“Then why?” Will allows himself to ask. His hope is like a poisonous thing inside of him because all hoping has ever gotten Will is heartache and disappointment. He can’t make it stop now though and it is threatening to smother him, leaving him feeling anxious and more afraid than he is even after a nightmare.

Spark leans down and kisses Will’s jaw. “Because you are loved, Will Graham.”

It goes through Will like a rush of warm, salty water. It shakes in his insides and makes his eyes burn because he _believes_ him. Spark does not lie, not to him and he loves him. It’s something Will has wanted for his whole life, for someone to love him back and for that person to _stay_.

Will pushes himself upright at last so he can lean in and say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” until Spark mutters for him to stop it.

His lips brush against Will’s as he speaks and Will leans in just a bit closer. The words; the _three_ little-big words tremble in the back of his throat and skitter around on his tongue like static electricity. Looking at Spark now though Will knows he doesn't need to say it; Spark already knows. He reaches out and cups Will’s cheek in his hand with a faint smile and closes the last fraction of distance between them. 

As the first cold light of October begins to inch across the floor, Will closes his eyes as he kisses Spark. The sunlight blooms electric blood red as it hits his closed eyelids and it is warm. It is warm.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all have enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. It actually only took me about two and a half weeks to complete--an almost unheard of thing for me (I usually take _months_ to finish things). This really grabbed me in a way an idea for fic hasn't in a long time. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read it. :D


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